


Unbind

by Aytheria



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Apocalypse, Gen, Nephilim, POV Dean Winchester, Season/Series 05, Winged Dean Winchester, Winged Sam Winchester, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-03 06:32:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 38
Words: 64,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4090630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aytheria/pseuds/Aytheria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Four idiots trying to find a way to kill the Devil before he destroys the world. What do you say to that?”</i>
</p><p>Or,</p><p>The one where Lucifer gets out of the box and it triggers the emergence of some long-buried Winchester family secrets, Bobby does not get paid enough to deal with this shit, and Gabriel adopts some Winchesters, because he's nice like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vessel

**Author's Note:**

> This.... how do I even begin to explain what this fic is. It's not what you might expect. I'll try to explain:
> 
> This was inspired by various Angel!Winchesters fics, but mostly by rivetingtv’s [babybird](http://rivetingtv-blog.tumblr.com/tagged/baby_bird/) and [cas-bird](http://rivetingtv-blog.tumblr.com/tagged/wings/) gifs on Tumblr. 
> 
> This started off mostly as a drabbly, introspective thing in Dean's POV, but evolved into a full on series of overly serious crack-ness, tropey-ness and every so often some deep introspection...you have been warned. This really is a cocktail fic of ridiculous indulgence on my part and trope abuse - also, **wings**. Any recognisable dialogue has likely been pulled from online SPN episode transcripts and thus belongs to Kripke  & co. 
> 
> Now, if you're going to read this, it follows Season 5. So at the beginning of each chapter, I'm going to tag which episode(s) the fic's timeline is currently at (if applicable), so that people won't be completely lost. I don't bother to rehash most of the episodes, but assume that anything not re-written occurred as it did in the original canon. 
> 
> Apart from that? I've written a lot of this already, but I'll probably catch up to myself eventually. Chapters _will_ vary drastically in length. Do not be discouraged by the first few short chapters. They'll get longer.
> 
> Rated for Dean's potty-mouth.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: S05E01 - Sympathy for the Devil

_Vessel_

 *

After Lucifer was freed from hell, Dean thought it would be over. Poof. The Horsemen ride, the world ends. Instead he and Sammy find themselves on a plane, Sam completely detoxed by some mysterious power. When Cas pops out of the woodwork again like some kind of weed that just keeps growing back, he tries to convince Dean it was God’s work. That God had finally shown His ugly mug and it was His way of indicating approval or forgiveness. Deanisn’t going to throw any stock behind God showing up and putting an end to it all once and for all, but decides it might not be completely over. Not yet, anyway. They still sort of have a chance if they can find a way to gank the Devil. Just so long as the feathered dick squad keep their beaks out of his and Sammy’s business. None of this vessel crap. 

 

Vessels. Ha. Just a fancy way of saying _angelic meatsuit._  

 

Dean would rather go back to Hell than let some juiced up, feather-brained yes-man ride shotgun in his skin. Michael may not be the Devil, but he sure as hell would bring the end of days just as quickly. Dickless, sons of bitches, all of them. Except for Cas, the rebel. Dean might worry that he ends up screwing up everyone he meets, except he’s pretty sure that this time it might just be a good thing. Sometimes rebellion is healthy. 

 

Cas had kind of died for them, after all. That kind of gives the guy a lifetime pass on all other dick-ness in the Book of Dean. 

 

So there they are. Sam, demon-blood junkie; Dean, vessel of Michael; a fallen angel; a drunk, loud-mouthed hunter...and the end of the world. 

 

He really shouldn’t have wondered how it could possibly get any worse.

 


	2. Feathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: S05E01 - Sympathy for the Devil

_Feathers_

 *

When Cas pops in for a visit to tell them about his search for God, Dean thinks he may just have had a little too much to drink, because there’s a kind of strange haze that surrounds the guy for a second. And it’s _moving_. 

 

Then he blinks and it’s gone and it’s just Cas in his too-big trench coat with that too-serious expression on his face. 

 

Definitely too much to drink. Sammy’s not even squinting, which means it must be just Dean. 

 

He kind of zones out a little. Searching for God, blah-di-blah, looking under every rock, etcetera, etcetera. Peachy. Dean doesn’t believe for a second that Cas’s little plan is going to work. God hasn’t done anything so far (except maybe possibly bring Cas back to life...but for what reason? Just so Cas can go throw himself across the chopping block again? Why not just end the apocalypse before it can even gain momentum? Nah, he’s not buying it), so why should he suddenly show up to help _now_. After everything? 

 

But it keeps Cas hopeful and Dean just can’t begrudge the guy that. Lifelong pass, remember? 

 

Cas stays only for a moment, then flutters off with a soft flap of his coat and a rustle of feathers. And Dean thinks he’s hallucinating that because even though he _knows_ Cas has shadows of wings, he’s never seen or heard a hint of them actually being _real_. As in visible, touchable. But there, lying on the floor where Cas has just been standing, is a shiny, glossy black feather. 

 

Dean darts his eyes to Sam, but his brother isn’t even looking in the right direction. Swallowing, he steps over like the ground’s about to crumble out from beneath him and reaches out to touch it. 

 

But his fingers pass straight through it like it’s not even there. 

 

“Dean?”

 

Dean rubs his fingers together. “Sammy. Get over here. Tell me you’re seeing this too.” Even as he speaks the shimmer in the feather is increasing, like slick rainbow oil reflecting the light. Depending on the angle, it sometimes seems more solid or nearly invisible, as if it’s able to bend light around it like an invisible forcefield of some kind.

 

But by the time Sam crouches down next to him, the feather has become nothing but air and Dean asks himself just how much he had to drink today? 

 

“What, Dean?”

 

Dean shakes his head. It’s gone now. No sense in raising any alarms. Maybe that’s what happens when angels lose a feather, it becomes visible for a bit before fading? Visible and intangible. 

 

“Never mind, Sammy.”

 

Sam snorts, knowing it was something and Dean can feel the irritation rolling off those gigantor shoulders like a tangible thing, tendrils reaching out to prickle sharply against his skin. Dean shrugs it off and stands. He slams his hands deep into his pockets. “Right, so, we need to be looking for clues, so let’s hop to it, Princess.” 

 

He leaves Sam to stew. If it happens again, he’ll ask Cas, but that’s as far as this is going to go.

 

 


	3. Sensitivity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: S05E02 - Good God, Y'all

_Sensitivity_

 *

Dean isn’t stupid. He notices when things are off. That’s what has kept him alive all these long years hunting things and saving people. It’s just hard sometimes to realize how bad things have become when it creeps up on him so slowly. When the changes are like the sedate and steady erosion of water over rock. Unnoticeable except over the long passage of time. 

 

The buzzing under his his skin he attributed to nervous energy at first. Adrenaline. That sort of thing. But eventually even he couldn’t fail to notice that it coincided to only when other people were close enough to brush against him. 

 

And Sam’s girly angsting, well, if that has been heavier than usual then it’s hardly a surprise. The fact that he’d begun to taste it at the back of his throat, like sour morning breath, is less of a surprise. Sam’s anger is like prickling needles on his skin. Sam’s sadness sour. Sam’s fear like a cold chill. 

 

Dean had thought he was just reacting to the emotions he knew his brother was feeling, because he knows the bitch so well, but running into War changes everything. He can no longer brush it off and he isn’t going to be the dumb idiot who ignores a problem until it develops into something unstoppable. Like Sam’s addiction. 

 

He doesn’t want to think about what it might mean. Whether it’s some strange consequence long delayed from Hell, or whether some hoodoo witch has cursed his ass. It isn’t hard putting a name to it. He’s heard of psychics being empathetic before, but he wasn’t a freakin’ psychic last time he checked. That is Sammy the Wonder Boy. 

 

When he gets caught between Jo and Ellen’s raging hate and bitter desperation, slammed by it so suddenly he freezes, stunned for a moment, he knows he’s fucked. Whatever this is, it’s getting stronger. 

 

He’s a little ashamed to admit he lashed out at Sammy afterwards. But the bitch kind of did have it coming. _Dean_ isn’t the one who’d fucked a demon three ways from Sunday, drank pints of blood then opened the last lock on Lucifer’s cage. 

 

_(But you did open the first)_

 

Still. Screw this sensitivity crap. He is not a freakin' empath. No way in hell. 

 


	4. Halo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No episode tags

_Halo_

 *

Cas has a freakin’ halo. It’s right there, a corona of gently shimmering not-light that surrounds his head and illuminates his face, freeing it from all shadowy imperfections. It kind of makes Dean think he’s the second coming of Adonis for a moment or two before the not-light dims and he notices Cas is staring at him expectantly. 

 

Dean blinks, opens his mouth and blurts out, “Sorry, man, but you know you kind of have a halo right?” He wants to add that it’s totally girly and he’s gonna start calling him _Cassie_ , except that that would be a lie. It’s not girly, it’s... _holy_. Goddamnit. 

 

It’s Cas’s turn to blink. He tilts his head, a small furrow between his brows. Dean can feel the confusion and a little shock almost radiate off of him, just like the light-that-isn’t-there. There’s the sound of heavy rustling, like feathers moving in agitation. 

 

Sonnovabitch. That is definitely not kosher - he shouldn’t be seeing any of this.

 

He squints past the goddamn halo to glimpse the shadow moving at Castiel’s back. “And wings,” he sighs, furthering the bright white, ozone scent of shock. “God fucking damn it all.” 

 

He can tell Cas wants to reprimand him for his blasphemy, but is too busy smelling like lightning after a storm and budding rain. The scent of shock. Cas takes a step back, coat swishing around his ankles. Carefully he tilts his head left, then right. “Dean...you have already proved incapable of being able to see any part of my true form.”

 

Dean can’t take it anymore. It’s just one thing on top of another by this point. He sits his ass in a chair, so he doesn’t end up on the floor, and drags a hand down his face. “Awesome. That’s just peachy. Please tell me this is a vessel thing.”

 

Cas frowns. “I do not know. Either you have the rare and blessed gift of sight or you do not, and you do - _did -_ not. However, I have never met the vessel of an archangel of Michael’s power before. Is Sam seeing the same things?”

 

Dean snorts. “Sam’s a cocktail of freaky powers, but I don’t think this is one of them and he’s outta juice anyway, thank god.” He wonders if he oughtn’t to mention the whole empathy thing. But...it’s Cas. Maybe Cas can find a solution. Get rid of whatever it is - curse or otherwise. “I’m feeling other people’s emotions too. Like they’re...scents and tastes and shit.”

 

Cas actively takes another step back, and this time it isn’t just for observation. Dean knows he _definitely_ saw something large, looming, and shimmery over Cas’s shoulder make a knee-jerk reaction. He might not be seeing them feather by feather - it’s honestly rather more of a suggestion of matter in space illuminated by dark light and shadow - but there _is_ something there and he’s pretty sure they’re of the flapping variety.

 

“I was not aware you had your own psychic abilities,” Cas finally manages, sounding utterly perplexed - more so than usual. 

 

Dean shakes his head and shuts his eyes. He doesn’t need a visual reminder of his _own_ freakishness, thank you very much. “That’s just it. Until recently, I haven’t been!”

 

“A recent development?” Cas muses. 

 

Nodding, Dean runs a hand down the side of his face again, like it will somehow wipe away the memories of seeing things he shouldn’t. “Honestly I don’t know for how long. I only just started noticing I was noticing it recently...if you get my meaning. But I think it’s been building for a while.”

 

“And you have not had any encounters that might have triggered these powers?”

 

Dean snaps his eyes open incredulously. “Dude. How about the freaking Apocalypse for starters! All those seals? Standing at the gates of Hell when Lucifer’s cage popped open? Any of this ringing any bells?” He loves the guy, but sometimes Cas asks the dumbest questions. 

 

“None of those things should have caused the sudden development of powers,” Cas retorts, sounding stubborn. He clearly thinks Dean is the one being stupid here. 

 

But Dean is too busy having a revelation to care. It’s an ugly revelation, the kind he’d normally stash in some deep, dark pit in his mind and never think on again. The kind he’d resolutely ignore and ignore until it became too obvious to do so anymore without acting like a blind fool. But he has to know the truth. He stands up slowly, needing to move - to place one foot in front of the other and _do_ something - since he apparently has no control elsewhere. 

 

“Dean?”

 

“What…” he swallows, tries again, still pacing. “If none of those things could cause the development of powers...could they have triggered anything latent that might have already been there?”

 

He sees how this revelation catches Cas off guard. Like the angel had never considered such a possibility before and it’s floored him. Dean himself feels like he’s been run over by his Baby. From Cas’s expression alone, and the way the shadow at his back bristles; the almost overwhelming scent of ozone... he knows the answer even before the angel speaks. 

 

“That is a possibility, Dean.”

 

“So I’m psychic.”

 

“Perhaps. Or perhaps it is something else.” Cas tilts his head thoughtfully. “Most psychics stick to things like telepathy, telekinesis, visions, empathy. But being psychic does not automatically grant you such blessed vision.”

 

“What about a psychic angel vessel?” Dean forces out. 

 

Castiel inclines his head. “A psychic who is also a Vessel could hypothetically do so.”

 

Dean curses and sits down again, legs suddenly shaky. “Man, I do not want to be freakin’ psychic!”

 

Cas ignores this, because he stares past Dean, like he’s looking beyond the mortal plane, and purses his lips. “However, I am hesitant to conclude our search for answers. There is still the matter of the fact that you cannot just spontaneously develop the ability to see an angel’s true form. You could not before, and such a gift could not have been repressed - you are either born with it or you are not. All other mortal beings can never perceive the true form of an angel without suffering the consequences. Seeing as much as you have already, irregardless of psychic gifts...I am surprised you still possess your sight.”

 

Dean stares. And stares some more.

 

First of all, gifts? _Gifts? Really?_ That is _not_ what Dean would call...whatever this is. Second of all… “Okay, but there _are_ some special humans who have the ability to perceive an angel’s true form, right?”

 

“And hear my voice and speak to me without harm, yes. But we have already proved you incapable of this feat.”

 

Dean hunches his shoulders. Fan-friggin-tastic. “So what am _I_ doing?” he mumbles (whines, really). 

 

Cas tilts his head. “I do not know. You do tend to be the exception to the usual rule. I will...need to go make enquiries.” And before Dean can even possibly process the words long enough to respond, Castiel - the slippery little bastard - has already disappeared. 

 

Dean refuses to acknowledge the fact that he saw the shadow at Cas’s back expand and snap inwards just before the air cleared and he vanished, taking his ozone and bitter tang with him. 

 


	5. Viral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: S05E04 - The End; Post-S05E03 - Free to Be You and Me

_Viral_  

_*_

If Dean wasn’t already convinced that God had left the building long before the shit hit the fan, he would have wondered if the guy had a really twisted sense of humor. Despite what that dick, Raphael, claimed, he doubted God was _dead_. God was...well, _God_. God couldn’t _die._ He could, on the other hand, be a complete douche and just fuck off to another universe and leave them in the dust. Sippin’ alien margaritas on one of the moons of Saturn or something, just waiting for the end of the world. 

 

Still, there was a kind of ironic symmetry to the fact that Dean had had run-ins with two archangel dicks one right after the other, and like a virus spreading, or a tumor growing, inch by inch in his head, with each meeting, the... _sight_ was getting clearer. 

 

And now that he has just spent the last hour or so running for his life from Croatoan-infested zombies, seriously considered the merits of plucking Douche-face’s wings like a a Christmas turkey, and somehow ended up in some fucked-up alternate reality where Cas is a stoner and free-love hippie...well, yeah, it’s fucking _ironic._ Everyone’s infected with crazy or madness and there Dean is, smack in the middle, now acutely aware of each change as it comes over him. The way his eyes have sharpened to see brighter colors - like he’s on drugs or something. The way scents and emotions seem completely intertwined and impossible to separate. The way he can _feel_ evil and douche-baggery-ness against his skin like a slimy, oil-like sickness that seeps into his pores and makes him feel nauseous. 

 

And that he gets the feeling that if he had actually tried to reach across and pluck a vaguely defined feather from good ol’ Zachy’s wings, he might have actually succeeded. He bets Zach would have squawked, too. Like a chicken. 

 

He also knows two things when he meets his future self for the first time. Either this isn’t his future, because that’s not really _him_ , or he gets cured. _(If there is in fact anything_ to _cure)._ Considering his track record on luck so far, he’s not banking on ‘cured’ so much as Zachariah is fucking with him. Cas as a stoner hippie? Bobby dead? Sam saying _yes_ to the Devil? (And wasn’t that a kick in the balls? Sam being Lucifer’s vessel just as assuredly as Dean is Michael’s? The Winchester Curse TM is back). 

 

Either way none of it makes any sense to Dean. There’s no way, just no way, that he would consider doing what his “future self” is considering doing.

 

Dean goes along with his future self’s ballsack plan to gank Lucier-Sam or die trying because he has no choice. But he accompanies them in a semi-state of detachment. Like he’s at the movies, watching a reel play out across the screen. It’s not real - none of it is - he _knows_ this like he knows the sky is blue and the grass is green - but he can’t tear his eyes away. 

 

When Zachariah brings him back to real-land, gloating, thinking he’s won, that he’s finally shown Dean the way, Dean laughs in his face. Everything is so surreal in that moment that he can’t think of a better response, so he just laughs. He can now see each individual, iridescent, back-lit feather on Zachariah’s big ass wings bristle in annoyance, even though the only part of his vessel to move is the downward twitch of his lips into a scowl. Sweet. Seeing angel wings, as much as he hates being a freak, is at least good for something. 

 

“Aww,” he can’t help but coo. “Am I _ruffling your feathers,_ Zach?”

 

Zachariah freezes, narrowing his eyes with a little bit of suspicion. But Dean just blinks innocently back, so Zach continues with his whole ‘destiny, must say ‘yes’, blah blah blah’ spiel, until Dean interrupts him again with, “Seriously? That’s the best you’ve got? I know it was a lie. Sam would never say yes, Cas would never turn into... _that_. And the me that wasn’t me? Well, _wasn’t me_. Wherever you took me wasn’t real - what if I’d died, been eaten by zombies? Shot in the head? You’d’ve been out one handsome Michael-vessel. I’m not stupid, you dick, and I’m not going to say yes, so you can go fuck yourself.”

 

This seems to throw Zachariah for a loop long enough for Cas to yank Dean’s ass out of the frying pan and away from the explosive, fiery temper of the Dickless Wonder. 

 

When he sees Cas, this time with Grace intact, the subtle back-lit glow is comforting to such an extent that he blurts out in a babble, “Never change, man, okay? Stay you.” He wants to reach out and sooth the uncertain flutter of feathers, but holds himself back. This strengthening empowered-sight is bad enough without trying to actively acknowledge its existence. 

 

When Cas finally leaves, promising to come back the moment he knows anything - about Dean or about God - Dean immediately pulls out his cellphone and calls Sam. If there’s one thing he has learned it’s that he and Sam are never better off apart. It’s together or nothing. 

 

He’ll consider telling Sam about the angel-vision later. 

 

Maybe. 

 


	6. Hybrid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: Post-S05E06 - I Believe the Children Are Our Future

_Hybrid_

_*_

Dean is shaken beyond belief after Jesse Turner vanishes into the ether. He’s beyond disturbed by the very concept of demon-human hybrids ( _cambions_ ) and the fact that Cas wanted to kill the kid just for existing. Part of him starts wondering immediately whether, if Cas discovers the answer behind Dean’s freakishness and doesn’t like it...will he suddenly want to kill Dean too? He’s seen the way the angels treat Sam, like he’s one step away from going completely dark-side and they’d rather just smite his ass now instead of wait to see if he ever actually goes over the edge. Guilty, until proven innocent is how the angels work. Which is ass-backwards in Dean’s book.

He wants to believe that Jesse will make the right choices - fuck, that the kid even _has_ choices - because he refuses to even think about the fact that some of this shit could apply to him too. 

He can’t get over the idea of a hybrid. The kid hadn’t known, had thought he was perfectly human and then suddenly he’s whammied with powers. Apparently that sort of thing is supposed to happen during adolescence, so Dean isn’t a Cambion, thank god. Having freakish powers is one thing, but being part-demon?  

He’s beginning to see why Sam’s so goddamn messed up over this shit. It hits him as he’s driving away from the small town, Sam silent and broody in the seat next to him, just _why_ Sam’s been so difficult over using his powers. He wants to believe that he can do something good with them, because otherwise it means acknowledging that he has evil swimming around in his veins and there’s nothing he can do to get rid of it. Dean knows the yellow-eyed demon, that son of a bitch Azazel, didn’t bleed into _his_ mouth, but it’s hard enough pretending not to feel other people’s emotions when it’s so much a part of him now. Knowing it was demon juice, knowing it was evil, would undo him. Like it did Sam. 

Sam had just been trying to make some sense of his own body. He’d been trying to take a bad thing and make it good.  

‘Course the bitch had always been a drama queen and rebellious, so when Dean says ‘don’t use your powers, Sammy, they’re bad’, Sam immediately turns around and does it in the most spectacular way possible. There’s still no justification for the blood-letting, he’s not trying to say that, but he thinks he now understands how Sam could have stepped foot on that path. 

He keeps throwing glances at Sam throughout his entire internal revelation, and eventually Sam gets fed up with it, because he turns to Dean and snaps, “What?” The word slaps against his skin like a snap of electricity.

“Nothin’,” Dean mutters, barely refraining from rubbing the side of his neck. 

Sam straightens stiffly. “No, Dean. You tell me what’s been going on with you. You’ve been acting shifty for weeks now.” Worry. Dean hates Sam’s worry because it’s cloyingly sweet, like over-ripe fruit.

And Dean knows that he needs to tell Sam. This isn’t something he can keep from his brother, because he knows how much he hated Sam for keeping his powers from Dean. He’d be a fucking hypocrite if he didn’t. And okay, so maybe he’s a hypocrite a lot of the time, but the whole Jesse abomination thing had kind of driven it home for him. 

Cas isn’t there, and Dean’s a little grateful. Cas would have no qualms about blurting out every tiny little detail, and Dean needs to do this at his own pace. He tells Sam to keep his little girl panties on, Sam grouches for the next few miles until Dean finds a gas station and some burritos. He takes them out, off the road to a stretch of endless golden wheat fields. With the sun dipping low in the sky, the fields look like they’re on fire. The sun is warm on his face, he has a beer in one hand, a burrito in the other, and a bitchy brother making puppy eyes against the back of his head, so it’s a good as it’s gonna get. 

Eating the burrito is an excellent excuse to stall for time in order to arrange his thoughts, but the salty-lime tang of Sam’s impatience burns around the edges like sulfur until the bitch can’t take it anymore. “Dammit, Dean, just spit it out already!”

“I think I’m psychic.” Dean’s very good at following orders sometimes. If Sam wants the truth spat in his face, that’s exactly what he’ll get. 

It throws Sam for a loop. Dean thinks there should be a boom of thunder to accompany the crackle of ozone. “...what?”

Dean’s shoulders hunch. “It...started when I realized I could see Cas’s wings. And his halo...well, I guess that would be his Grace or something. And I can feel people’s emotions. Or taste them. And I can feel bad intentions.” He doesn’t want to mention his eyesight, how much better - vibrant, vivid - the world is; like he’s looking through someone else’s eyes. If he admits that out loud then he admits the changes aren’t just mental, but...physical. Physical changes just _scream_ monster. 

And that loops his brain right back around to Jesse. Shit. 

Ozone and rain charges the air thickly and it’s hard to breathe. Sam leaps away from the Impala so he can grab Dean by the shoulders and shout in his face, “WHAT? What the hell are you talking about, Dean? You’re not psychic!” His face crumbles, the ozone turns bitter and sour on Dean’s tongue. “I…I’m the psychic, Dean. Me. Not you.”

Dean can’t look his baby brother in his stupid, puppy eyes. “Yeah, well, guess it runs in the family.”

Sam lets go with an exclamation, grabs at his hair, paces. “The demon didn’t bleed into your mouth, just mine! He didn’t come after you! If you were...if you were like _me_ , don’t you think the demon would have said something?”

Dean shrugs. “Hey, you think I know what the fuck’s going on? Like hell I do. Even _Cas_ doesn’t know. Best we can come up with it’s got to do with the fact that I’m Michael’s Vessel-”

“No!” Sam explodes, like a gunshot. Dean can’t help the flinch. Sam doesn’t notice that he’s causing his brother pain, he just starts ranting. “That makes no freaking sense, Dean! I’m Lucifer’s Vessel, in case you didn’t catch the memo, and I’ve never been able to see Cas’s wings or his Grace or...or _feel_ evil and emotions and crap! It’s _not_ the same!”

“How would you know? Maybe the demon’s blood messed you up!”

That stops Sam in his tracks. He falters and, oh great, the self-loathing is back. It took Dean a while to figure out that the ugly smell of ash and embers is Sam’s own hatred for himself. “Stop that!” Dean continues, annoyed. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself - don’t give me that, empathetic, remember, bitch?” Sam looks horrified, tastes horrified, and Dean smirks a little. “Look, whatever it is, Cas is on the case. Who knows, maybe it’s a curse, maybe it’s temporary, maybe it’s…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. _Maybe it’s who I am._  

He really, really hopes not. 

“You’re...you’re not getting any weird urges, are you?” Sam asks, worry back full force. It slams into Dean hard enough that he fights down the urge to gag. 

“N-no,” he chokes out. “It’s just...different. I can see and feel things, mostly, that’s it.”

“No demon exorcising powers?”

Dean gives Sam a _look_. 

Sam holds up his hands. “Okay. Jeez. So just being empathetic and seeing angels’ Grace?” Sam suddenly breaks out into a laugh. “Dude, that’s so girly!”

“Shut up, Samantha!”

Sam just grins on smugly. Eventually he gets over himself and moves on to dealing with the situation the best way he knows how - research. Around a couple mouthfuls of soothing beer, he decides, “We’ll talk to Bobby, get him on the books. If there’s lore out there, he’ll find it.”

“And Cas won’t?” Dean points out.

“Cas is busy trying to find God and keeping his head down,” Sam points out right back. “Besides, Bobby will have a different perspective. You can’t think of any time someone might have cursed you?”

Dean slides a look his way. “Do you honestly think it’s a curse? Curses usually have consequences. Bad shit goes down. So far...nothing. Just...abilities.” 

Sam nods a reluctant agreement. Dean’s next chug of beer is sour, like Sammy’s disappointed it’s not going to be that easy. But since when is anything that easy? 

“We’ll figure this out, Dean.”

_Little bitch,_ Dean thinks fondly.He should be pissed over the fact that Sam is inordinately relieved to not be the only one with psychic issues now, but he just quite can’t muster up enough indignation. Sam is still worried, still wants to fix it, but he has something other than his own crappy fate to distract him now. And he’s no longer alone in his psychic, wonder boy angst. 

Except if Sammy’s Wonder Boy, then Dean at least gets to be Wonder Man. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you guys prefer it with single or double spaces between paragraph breaks? Just wondering what's an easier format to read...


	7. Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: S05E07 - The Curious Case of Dean Winchester

_Years_

_*_

For a while it’s this big awkward secret that sits between them - the thing they don’t talk about. They pretend it’s all good. Bobby is happy for something useful to do that keeps his mind off the wheelchair situation. (Though first he bitches Dean out for being an idjit and keeping this to himself for so long. Yeah, thanks Bobby, love you too, man). Cas pops in every so often to declare that he has _nothing_ \- squat, zip, zilch, fuckin’ bupkis - to report. 

 

And it gets fucking worse. 

 

Or rather, Dean’s starting to get _used_ to it. He doesn’t even flinch anymore when Sam’s angst bitch-slaps him in the face. He can’t even remember what it was like to see things in anything less than full-on psychedelic technicolor, and Cas without his Grace-glow and shadowy wings spewing emotion all over the place just wouldn’t be Cas anymore. 

 

Dean doesn’t want to _get used to it_. But it isn’t like one day he wakes up and he’s different; it’s this gradual descent into normality until the only thing keeping him grounded in reality is Sam’s worried looks (the scent of overripe, spoiled mangoes) and the way he sometimes says, “ _Dean_ ,” like he’s worried Dean’s just suddenly going to go Freddie or Jason on his ass. Like the bitch can talk. 

 

Dean forgets about all of that when he finds out Bobby’s not been quite on the up and up as he says and has been searching for a solution to his legs just as much as Dean’s inexplicable new abilities. Dean doesn’t even think about the consequences when he finds out that Bobby made a deal with the gambling witch they’re hunting, he bets twenty-five years right then and there, and another twenty-five just to win ‘em back. He thinks it’ll be in the bag. He can feel the man-witch’s emotions, after all - excitement, disappointment - should be easy to call his bluffs. But either the guy’s just that good at fooling people, or it’s not winning he likes, but the thrill of the game itself.  

 

He’s an idiot and he feels the weight of the lost years settle in his bones, but there’s something else there. A kind of elastic tension in his stomach. He writes it off as nerves, but the more he ages, the more the tension increases, like it’s trying to resist something. His aging slows down and he swears that no guy in his late-70s should look half this good. He can feel the age still creeping on him, but it’s an elastic band that keeps being stretched, and it’s getting harder and harder to pull. Sure enough it begins to stretch too thin and it shows in the wrinkles and the salt and pepper hair, but it’s resisting as hard as it can and it hasn’t snapped yet. 

 

Sam thinks he bet twenty-five years, Dean doesn’t tell him that it was fifty. No. That’s Bobby, the mouthy bastard. 

 

“Dean. You barely look a day over fifty,” says Sam, worry shining in his eyes and stinking up Dean’s nose. 

 

Dean shrugs. “It’s just taking a while. I’ll get there eventually, but I think I’d rather get back my years before that happens.”

 

Sam buys it. Bobby’s suspicious. Dean doesn’t care, he just wants his years back. The man-witch on the other hand, he blows the whole unspoken secret right out of the water when he comes upon them stealing his chips. 

 

“You’re lookin’ awfully young and chipper for someone who lost fifty years,” he states evenly. His eyes narrow at Dean. “What are you?”

 

It’s the words that no one’s dared to say: _what are you?_ Like Dean isn’t human. It’s a concept Sam and Bobby and Dean and even Cas haven’t been able to touch. The possibility that this is more than just _powers_ or a _curse._ That Dean might actually be a _thing_. One of the monsters they hunt. In the darkest parts of his heart, he fears it’s only a matter of time before he develops the urge to eat someone’s liver or brain, or use his powers to kill.

 

He thinks of Jesse again. He could be a half-breed, maybe. Or infected. But he’s never heard of someone _infected_ with psychic, angel-seeing powers. The only basis for comparison they have is Sam and Jesse, and neither of those situations apply to Dean (that they know). 

 

Sam steps forward, defensive and bristling with iron tang. “What do you mean what is he? He’s my brother, and we’ll be taking back his years now.”

 

But Patrick the he-witch doesn’t buy it. He cocks his head and shots a look at his little witchy girlfriend. “Really? Brother by blood? Hmm. I took fifty years offa him and he looks like a spring chicken.” 

 

Sam gestures widely. “He’s aging! It’ll catch up to him soon and we’re not gonna stick around and _wait_ for it!”

 

But Dean’s tasting Patrick’s skepticism and between his brother and the old, powerful witch? He hates that he believes the witch. 

 

“Sam, Sam, Sam, it doesn’t work like that. I take the years and they’re _gone_. I don’ take ‘em gradually. They’re _gone_. Poof! He should be using a walking cane by now, but he could probably still keep hunting - boy’s in great shape, aren’t ye, Dean? So what are you? Or what kind of spell did you cast, to lengthen your life like that?”

 

Sam falls silent, shock rolling off of him in waves. He turns to Dean, looking pathetic and pulling out one of those faces that always makes Dean want to grab him and hide him away in a padded room where nothing can get to him. “Dean?” he asks, voice all tragic and pleading. 

 

“I haven’t done anything,” Dean reassures him. He bites his lip. “No spells, nothing.”

 

He slides his gaze to Patrick and his girl again. If he squints and turns his head sideways a little, he can see an oily, dark slick tint to the guy’s skin. It’s like he’s seeing hints of the witch’s powers or...or _soul_ or something. Since he has no basis for comparison, he can only guess, but the faint sickly shiver down his spine tells him its demonic. Not as bad as a full-blown demon, or some really sick and twisted individuals (and isn’t that just peachy, because he hates that this witch isn’t technically evil, despite the taint and the powers and being a giant douchebag), but it’s bad enough to make him want to wrinkle his nose. 

 

Sam draws in a sudden, panicked breath. His alarm hits Dean with a shocking tingle. Dean whirls around. “What?”

 

Sam shakes his head, mute. 

 

“Share with the class, Sam,” Patrick cajoles. He’s curious, Dean can smell it. “You know what this is, don’t ye?”

 

Sam shakes his head. “I...don’t. It was just...just a thought. I...I need to talk to Cas, first.” The look he then gives to Dean is heavy and assessing. Dean is not feeling optimistic about any of this. 

 

“I’ll just be taking my goddamn years back, now,” he snarls instead, protecting the chips he needs and wondering how he and Sammy are going to escape this long enough to have that conversation he knows is coming. 

 

Patrick laughs. “You want the chips? Take ‘em. They’re just _chips_ , Einsteins. It's showmanship. This may come as a shock, but the magic doesn’t lie in a pile o’ crappy plywood or in any phony ‘abracadabra’. It's in the nine- _hundred_ -year-old witch. You boys want years? Score 'em the old-fashioned way. Texas hold 'em.” He stops chewing on his toothpick, tapping it against his lip thoughtfully. “I’d be interested to see jus’ how many years I can take from ye, Dean, afore they start to catch up to you.”

 

“I’ll play for them!” Sam interjects before Dean can agree. He’s sure that he could win, given enough games, but at the same time he’s also worried that he won’t make it before the years, as Patrick said, catch up to him. 

 

“Hell no,” Dean snaps. 

 

“Dean.”

 

“Boys,” the he-witch interrupts quickly. He spreads his arms dramatically. “How about this. I let you walk out of ‘ere, no sweat. I’ll give you time to decide what you want to do, even. Just tell me this, Sam, what were you thinking? Tell me what you think Dean is.” His eyes glint with amusement. The scent of curiosity grows stronger. 

 

Sam narrows his eyes. “We can fight our way out.”

 

Patrick grins. “An’ die in the attempt. Not likely.” He flicks his toothpick away. His girlfriend shifts next to him impatiently. She hasn’t said a word this entire time. “How about I sweeten the pot,” he offers and she rolls her eyes. “A little gamble of me own. I give back...oh, ten years? You tell me.”

 

Aw, shit. Sammy’s got that look, that ‘I’m about to do something stupid for the greater good’ look. “Deal,” says Sam quickly. “Now give them back.”

 

Patrick tsks. “First, you tell me.”

 

Dean hates to admit he wants to know what Sam’s figured out. He can’t even begin to imagine _how_ Sam’s figured it out, either, and he’s scared to know. Losing fifty years and only aging twenty of them is a far cry from simple empathy and angel-vision. Long life or immortality never comes without a price, and the only things that live longer than a hundred years and can still call themselves human? If they’re out there Dean’s sure never heard of ‘em. 

 

Dean’s heart wants to climb out of its ribcage. His stomach churns and clenches. Sammy shoots him this mournful ‘I’m so sorry’ look and he can’t take it anymore. “Just fuckin’ say it, already, Sam. What’s your theory!”

 

Sam swallows. “Well, this whole thing started with angels, right?”

 

Patrick exchanges a quick glance with his girl. Dean smells the beginnings of sweet-spoilt worry. Guess the demon witch isn’t so keen on the Holy Feather Brigade. 

 

“I guess,” Dean capitulates. He can practically see the gears turning in Sammy’s little nerd brain. 

 

“That’s the key,” Sam admits slowly. “Angels. You...whatever it is that’s wrong with you, it’s angelic. For god’s sake, Dean, you just did Cas’s weird head tilt thing!”

 

Dean rewinds the last few minutes in his brain and comes to a very unsettling realization. He _had_ done Cas’s head-tilt thing. He’d always thought it was just a Cas being confused thing, but now that he’s experienced it for himself, maybe it’s just Castiel looking sideways at the world, viewing things from a different angle. It makes sense in a way Dean doesn’t want it to make sense. “So what, I have angel eyes?”

 

“And you’re resisting aging? I don’t think so,” Sam refutes stubbornly. 

 

“Aw, shit,” Patrick mumbles. Dean looks over to see him standing protectively in front of his girl. His accent thickens. “Right, I dunnae want any mess with bloody _angels_. You - whatever kind of angel-thing you are - you can have the bloody pissing years back, we’ll part ways and no one will come a-looking fer me, clear?”

 

Dean doesn’t even hesitate. “Fine.” He’ll worry about the implications later. Whatever this is has to do with Dean being a vessel, clearly. Maybe Archangel vessels are just different and Sammy isn’t because the demon blood interfered with his...angelic-ness, or whatever. 

 

Dean knows quite well that Castiel was never fully convinced on the vessel front, but he’d rather believe that than believe...what? He can’t think of any other explanation that doesn’t involve ‘inhuman monster’, so he’s going to stick with archangel vessel and leave it at that. 

 

Still, he’s never had a confrontation end quite so passively before. Patrick mumbles a few words, wriggles his fingers and suddenly Dean’s looking hale and healthy and that elastic band feeling snaps all the way back; except that he feels like something inside him has been loosened by the experience. Something’s come undone. Whatever it is can’t be good. 

 

He really, really hates witches. 

 


	8. Budding

_Budding_  

_*_

The second Sam can, he calls Castiel to their motel room where Dean is sitting, over-analyzing everything he’s said and done ever since they let Lucifer out of his box, and Bobby is being twice the grouchy bastard he usually is to cover the fact that he’s terrified out of his mind. Which Dean knows. Because he can taste it. 

 

Cas arrives in a flutter of wings and otherworldly feathers, the sight of which settles something restless in Dean, like a warm blanket being cast over cold shoulders. His eyes snap to Dean the moment he arrives and he strides straight past Sam and Bobby both, like they’re invisible. He bends and peers into Dean’s eyes, declaring with little fanfare that, “Something’s different.”

 

Sam sucks in a breath. “What is it?” 

 

Dean freezes under Cas’s heavy scrutiny. Cas furrows his brow, twisting his head this way and that. “I...I do not quite know. What happened?” This time Dean has recognized the head tilt for what it is - side-viewing. Cas is trying to check something beyond the plane of the physical about Dean and is having trouble seeing whatever it is that he wants to see. 

 

Bobby and Sam fill Cas in on the year-gambling witch. Cas grows immediately grave at the news, the weight of his Grace blanketing the entire room. Strangely, Dean doesn’t feel smothered, but comforted. It’s creepy. 

 

“He is not a monster,” Cas informs them. Dean feels tension he’d been gathering in his shoulders release. “Nor is this normal.” And the tension is back. 

 

“It’s got to be something to do with being Michael’s vessel, right?” Dean prods. He wants Cas to say yes, so that he knows this is something he can deal with. That it’s not something more insidious. That he’s still going to be _Dean_ , even if he has to endure Sam’s girly angsting on a whole ‘nother level. 

 

Cas dithers. “I...there is perhaps one thing I can do to ascertain the matter…” The feathers on his wings flutter with nerves.

 

Dean leaps up. The chair he’s been sitting on clatters against the edge of the table, wood on wood. He doesn’t bother straightening it, but gets up into Cas’s face. “Then why the hell didn’t you do this before?”

 

Cas scowls at him. “It is a last resort. It is not something to be suggested lightly, but I am now extremely worried and I do not believe we have the luxury of waiting.”

 

“Well, what is it?” Bobby demands gruffly. 

 

Cas is stalling, which sets Dean’s teeth on edge because usually the angel is incredibly straight with them, if occasionally cryptic. “ _What_ , Cas?” Dean snaps, just wanting to get this shit over with so they can find a goddamn cure! 

 

Cas’s shoulders slump a little, but the really telling thing is the way his wings droop. Dean has to remind himself that Sam and Bobby aren’t seeing (smelling, tasting) the same things he is. Dean can read Castiel like an open book these days and right now he knows Cas is both resigned and upset. “Cas,” he repeats a little more softly. “Please, man, whatever it is, I need to know.”

 

Cas jerks his chin (and his wings) in acknowledgement. “Very well, but this will hurt worse than anything you’ve ever experienced.”

 

Okay, he wasn’t exactly expecting that. “Even Hell?” 

 

“Very likely,” Cas replies, completely truthful, fully believing his words if the scent of pine and loamy earth is any indication.

 

“Awesome,” Dean mutters to himself ruefully. 

 

Sam’s giant frame tenses and he shoots Dean a very worried look. “Dean…”

 

“Boy, maybe-” Bobby starts as well. 

 

Dean cuts them both off. “Fine. _Do it_.”

 

Cas nods and begins to roll up the sleeve on his right arm. “I will need you to keep still. Someone give him something to bite down on so he does not bite off his tongue.” As Sam hurries to undo his belt, Cas explains. “I am going to reach inside you and touch your soul, Dean. I will be able to tell exactly what has been going on once I have read your soul.”

 

Son of a bitch. That sounds about the last thing that he wants to be doing, but this is Cas. If there’s anyone he trusts to figure this shit out, it’s Cas. “Awesome,” he agrees again, faintly. 

 

He bites down on Sam’s belt, not even managing to rustle up a dig at his mother hen fussing. Bobby looks faintly green. Cas is twice as worried as before, and also nervous. “Dean...I am not as powerful as I once was. I will try to be quick, but I do not know how long it will take…” The poor angel looks absolutely miserable at the prospect. His primary feathers fall all the way to trail on the ground and Dean’s taste buds feel like he’s swallowed a whole bushel of lemons and goosebumps rise all the way up and down his arms and legs. He catalogues them all in the back of his mind: sad, resigned and a little afraid. Perfect.

 

_Just do it,_ he thinks, gearing himself up. 

 

Cas is right about one thing. It _is_ worse than Hell. At least down in Hell they’re limited by one torture at a time. This feels like every torture imaginable and then more. Like Cas is pouring molten lava into his veins, striking him with lightning, ripping him open and turning him inside out and then...suddenly...it’s different. 

 

And Dean is pretty sure that this isn’t supposed to happen. His body freezes mid-spasm as something Castiel’s doing reaches out and touches part of Dean, the part that’s snapped, stretched and loosened. But instead of burning worse than the fires of Hell, it soothes the burn. It’s like the gentle brush of soft feathers, and...and every last emotion Cas feels for Dean is suddenly _there_ , overwhelming him. It’s a torture all on its own because he can’t sort through the sudden swell of feeling. It feels like it’s overcharging his brain. The affection and worry and pride and devotion, friendship, _faith..._  

 

Sam shouts as Dean’s eyes roll back and Cas jerks his hand out much faster than he put it in. His wings shoot forward automatically to wrap around Dean, smothering him from head to toe in Grace-feathers, and Dean slumps, belt tumbling from between his white lips. The feathers are trembling, crackles of shock racing up and down and zinging Dean’s skin lightly.

 

“What the hell just happened!” Sam shouts hysterically. 

 

Dean whimpers. Cas gapes. 

 

“Buds,” he whispers in full on astonishment. “ _Wing_ buds.”

 

_Sonnavabitch,_ thinks Dean. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we have it. The (albeit short) chapter you've all been waiting for. (I think)


	9. Rebel

_Rebel_

_*_

 

_Angels are watching over you._

 

He remembered her saying it to him at night as she tucked him into bed. He’d never thought there had been more to it than just her faith. That she might have known about the angels, maybe even known what her children were. (As a Hunter, she would have _known_ the importance of keeping them from becoming angelic meatpuppets whose destiny was to destroy the world. She would have understood).

 

Honestly, none of them know the real truth - not even Castiel - but they’ve managed to stitch together a picture, piece by broken piece. An unnamed angel, likely tasked with watching over Earth, had seen something her brethren hadn’t, and had chosen to confide in and possess Mary Winchester (they’d already ruled out their father - he’d been too ignorant of their circumstances), with the hope of preventing the final battle coming to pass and destroying the world. 

 

At least, that’s what Dean likes to think his mother’s motivations were - or does he have two mothers now? He doesn’t like to think about it. He had a mother and her name was Mary, possessed by an angel or not, it was still _Mary_ who gave birth to him. The angel just contributed a little bit of Grace. That’s all.  

 

Castiel seems convinced it was all God’s plan, that he had directed an angel to Mary, and it was a sign that the apocalypse was never meant to happen. He’s also convinced it had to be Mary, because Mary would have been able to figure out how to bind Sam and Dean’s souls after they were born to prevent the formation of their own Grace. She would have been able to do it, secretly, with no one the wiser. Mary had been kickass like that.  

 

Castiel says it’s the most plausible scenario; that there are rituals out there that can bind an angel’s Grace and prevent it from being used - that theoretically using it on a newborn Nephil would keep them from developing any angelic powers and keep them off the radar - but that such rituals were rarely if ever used and had fallen into disuse after the Rebellion. (And yes, that’s Rebellion with a capital ‘R’. Apparently there’s only one rebellion big enough to warrant it, and that’s Lucifer’s little hissy fit).

 

Dean is still reeling from the concept that his mother might have been, for a very short time, an angel. He just can’t believe that no one would have known or noticed anything. After Bobby left to go back to Sioux Falls with promises to do some research on fallen angels, nephilim and unbinding rituals, Dean corners Cas outside the motel room and demands an explanation. 

 

“With all the angel eyes on my parents, how could no one have _noticed_ anything?” 

 

Castiel seems mildly perturbed. “It is indeed worrisome but not impossible,” he admits.

 

“How?” Dean forces out. He cant’ help but imitate the slight roll of Cas’s shoulders as he settles his wings. He keeps imagining those...those _things_ on his back, heavy and cumbersome. His brain just can’t compute the physiology. He tries to remember if he’s felt any extra weight on his back, any aches and pains, but nothing comes to mind. Grace isn’t physical, not in the sense of bone and sinew, so it’s not like his muscle and flesh are growing. That, at least, is a small comfort. 

 

Cas settles in for a long explanation. He beckons Dean with a wing tip, of which he knows Dean can now see every last vibrant detail, so they sit together on the hood of the Impala, one of Cas’s wings hovering just beyond touching distance of Dean’s shoulder. “Dean, if it is God’s plan, as I suspect it is, then he would have made sure no one noticed. Regardless, whichever of my brethren is responsible...they likely took great pains to sneak about. There are spells and sigils for such things. It is possible - difficult, but possible. Especially if it happened before Heaven went on high alert.”

 

“But _twice_?” Dean asks skeptically. “I mean, Sam too, right?”

 

The feathers brush the back of Dean’s neck lightly as they resettle. “Yes, I imagine Sam as well. After all, Lucifer cannot have his Vessel just as much as Michael cannot have his. Both of you would need to be inaccessible. And I told you, if God--”

 

“Okay,” Dean interrupts, rolling his eyes. “I get it, God’s plan.” He pauses. “Do...Is there any way to figure out _which_ angel?” He frowns suddenly. “In fact, whoever it is, why aren’t they here now, helping?”

 

Cas tilts his head. “It is possible that whoever it was has been killed in the ongoing war. Or perhaps they chose afterwards to Fall.”

 

“Like Anna,” Dean concludes. 

 

“Yes. Or they may simply be keeping their distance to remove suspicion.”

 

Dean had considered that possibility as well. “And...once this is over?”

 

“This?”

 

Dean gestures. “The apocalypse. Everything.”

 

“It would still be a risk. If they are fallen...Fallen angels are not looked upon favorably, you know this.”

 

Dean snorts, sneering. “Yeah, and neither are Nephilim, apparently.”

 

Cas’s gaze is solemn, but he smells like loamy earth. “Dean. Regardless, you are my friend. I see now that the Nephilim of old were destroyed not for their evil, but from fear of their power and their freedom of choice. There was no one to control what they did - they did not answer to Heaven, they were not soldiers we could control. Some of them could and _did_ do terrible things with their power, and that sealed the fates of them all.” The taste on Dean’s tongue turns sour and he sighs, hating the sadness and the fact that it won’t leave his taste buds alone. “Dean, I am ashamed. Many of them were children, and innocent of any wrongdoing. It was neither fair, nor just. Each should have been judged for deed and deed alone.” He draws his wings back in, tightly, leaving Dean feeling bereft and just a little cold. “But what’s done is done.”

 

“Can’t change the past,” Dean agrees gruffly. He’d know. He’d tried. 

 

“Exactly.” Cas turns to him, eyes shining and the scent of pine so strong Dean forgets he’s sitting in the parking lot of a run-down motel on route-middle-of-bumfuck-nowhere. “Dean, I will protect you, and Sam.”

 

Dean’s lips quirk. “My hero.” He may be teasing, but he is kind of touched. Besides, he wonders, has anything really changed? The angels hunt them regardless, Cas protects them, regardless. And it just means Sam and Dean are no longer vessels, and are a lot harder to kill. 

 

The wing bit though? Yeah, he’s still struggling with that one. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re-wrote this soooo many times, but in the end, this is what I decided to go with. Hopefully there aren't any weird typos or grammatical errors.


	10. Pray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: Pre-S05E08 - Changing Channels

_Pray_

_*_

Dean doesn’t know what makes him do it. They’re on their way to question some guy about a bear attack that probably wasn’t a bear attack when they stop for the night in a small town. As small towns go, it’s tight-knit, with maybe one or two motels, a couple’a diners, a gas station, and several mom and pop stores selling everything from food to lawn supplies. There’s also a very stereotypical church sitting on the corner, all pretty and white, with a little stained glass window sitting high above the doors and a tiny bell in the steeple. It’s all so very _America_. 

 

They stop for gas, for sleep, and for pie - always for pie - and after they’re done, Sammy goes straight to sleep, but Dean feels restless. Cas can’t tell him how far away he is from suddenly sprouting feathers outta his back and Dean’s developed a bit of a twitch in his shoulders that’s probably more psychosomatic than anything. But he’s worried out of his mind - terrified - because he can’t help but think that he’s changing too much on the inside and suddenly, one day, he’ll wake up and he won’t be _Dean_ anymore. He’ll be some holier than thou dick with wings and a tendency to smite first and ask questions later. Which would just be the mother of all shit creeks (paddles not included). 

 

He’s also biting the heads offa everyone he speaks to because every morning he wakes up expecting to no longer be capable of watching porn, or frequenting strip clubs - cussing, drinking, and otherwise being his sinful best. How does this angel-Grace thing even work? Cas doesn’t seem worried, but the guy’s not exactly winning any medals for being Mr. Sensitivity. He just keeps telling Dean it’s an _honor_ to have Grace. 

 

Awesome. Because that solves everything - just like that. 

 

It’s dark; the church _should_ be locked up for the night, but he guesses nothing much has ever happened in this town because the doors open at his touch. He’s not sure what, exactly, he’s doing. Dean Winchester and churches have never mixed well before. He’s as sacrilegious as they come and tends, more often than not, to get kicked out of them - usually for stealing holy water. 

 

This time, however, he enters quietly and walks up the pews until he’s standing under the large hanging cross. There are statues and pictures of various saints fanning out from the front. Right in front of good ol’ crucified Jesus is a podium. This is the kind of town where nearly everybody gets up early on Sunday morning and comes down to sit and listen to the minister preach. 

 

As far as Dean’s concerned, it’s all a bunch of horseshit, seeing as God’s left the building, most angels are murderous dicks who want to bring about the Apocalypse, and _Dean and Sam Winchester_ are humanity’s last hope. 

 

Still, it’s kind of nice and peaceful in here, which is exactly what he was looking for. So he sits down in the front row pew - not to pray; please, he’s not Sam - but just to think. 

 

He feels the priest - or minister, or whoever it is - enter through the side door. It’s the most soothing thing in the world and he finds he can’t move, he’s boneless, because this man is so at _peace_ with himself and with the world - he’s full of faith and love and it smells like spring, fresh air and sea mist and fills him up with serenity. It’s the first time he’s ever felt something so tranquil and, well, beautiful, so he lets the priest come and sit next to him quietly. He just _knows_ automatically that the man means no harm (which isn’t normal; not human... but Dean’s trying not to think about that). 

 

If all people feel like this walking into a church, he can kind of see why most people find so much solace in praying. Even if angels _are_ insensitive, uncaring, glorified feather dusters. 

 

“Something on your mind, son?” the priest eventually asks him after nearly ten minutes of silence. Dean’s been thinking about angels, the Apocalypse, vessels, and trying to rationalize the changes, but that’s probably not what the priest means. 

 

“A lot is on my mind,” he replies, feeling a little foolish. 

 

“Is there anything you would like to share with God?”

 

Dean finally turns to look at the man. It’s strange, because he already feels like he knows him, just a little. He knows that this man is at peace, happy, and resolute in his faith. Nothing could shake his belief in God - nothing. And that tells Dean all he needs to know about what kind of person he is. He doesn’t know the man’s name, or anything about his life - not like Cas would, which he counts as a small blessing that he’s not too far gone - but it’s still strange to know so much about someone without ever having looked them in the eye. 

 

The priest - minister, whatever - is middle-aged, with graying hair receding at his temples, and laugh lines around his mouth and the corners of his eyes. He’s smiling, softly, like he doesn’t mind waiting until the end of the world to hear Dean out. 

 

(Which might be sooner than they all think). 

 

It’s dumb - stupid even - but with the blanket of serenity, the flush of spring and gently refreshing sea mist - he just wants to spill it all out, lay it out there all open and raw, and hope he can also find some peace with himself.  

 

Which...shit. This isn’t him. He doesn’t _do_ emotions and girly feelings and shit. He just doesn’t. 

 

It’s gotta be the church and the stupid holy atmosphere, he decides. That’s all it is. 

 

“God is always listening to whatever you have to say,” the priest continues serenely. 

 

Dean wants to laugh. Now he really wants to spill, but the words fighting for release are caustic and snide. He doesn’t want to break this guy’s peace and faith - wonders if he even could, no matter what truths he reveals - but now, irrationally, he feels betrayed by this man. How can he sit here, so resolute? So utterly _sure_ of the world, and of God and his dickless angels, when Dean and Sam are out there dodging bullets every day and trying to gank the fucking Devil himself?

 

“I don’t think God _is_ listening,” he confesses in spite of himself. 

 

“And why do you think that?” the priest replies calmly. 

 

Dean glances up at the roof of the church. Someone’s painted a mural - nothing spectacular, not like, say, the Sistine Chapel, but it’s not terrible either. It depicts angels and clouds and long, trailing ribbons. He snorts at the false imagery. “Well, he’s gone. He’s not in Heaven, and he’s not answering when we call. Cas is convinced he’s out there, but you ask me? I think he’s flown the coop. He’s sick of us - I mean, for fuck’s sake, it’s the _Apocalypse_. Lucy’s out of the cage and Michael wants to have the showdown of the millennium and no one but us seems to give a shit about everyone else here on Earth.” 

 

He really, really doesn’t know why he’s telling this to a complete stranger, except that he’s sure the man isn’t going to call the cops on him, or try to stick him in a psych ward. The dude’s a priest, and completely convinced of his faith. Besides, isn’t that what priests are for? Confessions? Or, wait, that’s Catholic. Whatever. Same thing. Same God. Same douchebag angels. 

 

“I...see,” the priest says slowly. Surprisingly there’s only the faintest hint of ozone betraying the man’s surprise, but it’s mostly covered up by the fresh spring air. Dean is now absolutely certain that nothing is going to faze this guy. Not even the Apocalypse. “And why is…’Cas’? Why is Cas convinced God is still out there?”

 

Dean leans back against the pew and smirks. He wonders how much crazy shit he can get away with before the priest calls bullshit or kicks him out or calls him a blasphemer. “Well, Raphael kind of exploded him and he was _gone_ , and then he was back again, good as new, and he’s convinced the only person it could be is God.” He shrugs. “I dunno what to believe, really. All I know is that he’s definitely left Heaven, and Zachariah is running the show up there.”

 

“Zachariah?” the priest repeats. Now there’s a tinge of sickly sweet peach in the back of Dean’s throat - worry. 

 

“Angelic upper management. He’s a dick.” Next to him the priest startles a little, jerking. “No, really, he’s a _dick_. Doesn’t give a shit about humanity - he just wants his fucking paradise. He _let_ the Apocalypse happen. _Made_ it happen.” 

 

Dean can feel it now, how his words are disturbing the guy. Still, he’s surprised he’s not yet been kicked out. Outwardly, all the priest has done is furrow his brow, like Dean’s words are a particularly complex math problem he needs to tackle. 

 

“So God has left and angels are rebelling against His Word, and you feel like you’ve been abandoned by Him?”

 

“Well don’t you have a way with words? That’s one way of putting it,” Dean allows with a smirk. “Of course those dick-mu-uh, the, uh, rest of the angels don’t see it as rebelling.” He censors himself, when he sees the old guy’s eyebrows climb into his hairline. He turns away, glaring at the wall of saints. It’s hard to curb his dirty mouth. He doesn’t quite succeed. “Instead we’re the fuckin’ the traitors for trying to _save_ humanity. There’s a goddamn angelic hit list and we’re pride of place right at the top.” He shuffles on the bench, realizes he’s rolling his shoulders again and stops. There are no wings there - not yet, goddammit. The priest is watching him still, eyes steady, so he sits up, leaning forward, clasping his hands on his knees. He finds himself at eye level with a table of unlit candles sitting in front of the wall. Some of them look half-melted, others nearly brand new. “Do you know how much it sucks being stuck between two great armies all set on hunting you down and making you the collateral? There’s Lucifer and his demons on one side, and Zach and his dickless garrison on the other and we’re right smack in the middle waiting to be crushed.”

 

“So you are fighting for humanity and wonder if it is worth it because you have lost your faith in God?”

 

“God _left_. And he’s not letting Himself be found,” Dean snaps. 

 

He can’t believe they’re having this conversation. What can a priest, who knows nothing of what’s really happening, actually tell him that he doesn’t already know? 

 

“Perhaps there is a reason for this. God works in mysterious ways, after all. There is a purpose in everything He does. This might be a lesson for us all - about faith and perseverance in the face of immense odds. He is testing your love - for humanity and for Him - and you cannot lose sight of that.”

 

Dean gets up and walks over to the table with the candles. He picks one up and fiddles with it just to have something to do with his hands. “You sound like Cas.”

 

“He sounds wise.”

 

Dean snorts. “Nah. He’s just...naïve.” He turns around, leaning back against the table, candle still in one hand. He rolls it around between his fingers. “The guy used be all ‘I am a soldier of Heaven, I must obey Heaven, mindless puppet’, but me and Sammy, we refused to just let them walk all over us, so we taught him how to think for himself. At the end of the day, Cas has always made the right choices. He’s on Team Free Will’s side now, I guess.”

 

“Team Free Will?”

 

Dean chucks the candle back down on the table and pulls his lighter from his pocket. He doesn’t know what the point in lighting it would be, but it’s something to do. “Yeah. Pretty much consists of me and my brother, Castiel, Bobby, and...that’s it. Four idiots trying to find a way to kill the Devil before he destroys the world. What do you say to that?” 

 

The priest is still sitting on the pew bench calmly, hands on his knees and an aura of mild worry, but nothing else. No wavering of faith. Dean’s lit three candles by now and pauses to stare at the guy in contemplation, because, come on, anyone else would think he’s a raving lunatic by now. He peers at the old guy, trying to see what makes him tick, and discovers that if he tilts his head...just...so...there’s a gentle glow about the man, almost like a dimly burning ember. It’s soft looking, warm. It’s not feathers, or a halo, and it’s not otherworldly, it’s just like the priest’s heart has lit up like a candle for all the world to see his unwavering belief. “You still have faith,” he blurts out. “You haven’t called me crazy, and you’re still…” he squints. “You’re unwavering, but I think you believe me. You’re not panicking, you aren’t scared. You’re accepting. Dude, you have issues.”

 

At that the priest finally quirks a smile. “Real faith has conviction,” he explains. “Even when an angel shows up in your church and tells you the Apocalypse is nigh and the Devil is free to walk the Earth once again.”

 

Dean finds himself speechless for a moment. He opens his mouth to explain, after a second, that he’s _not_ an angel, _hell no_ , but stops in mid-breath. What the hell. Let the guy think he’s an angel - it’s new, for one. No one’s ever accused Dean Winchester of being an _angel_ before. Sammy’ll never believe it. Except that he’s growing wings and has his own Grace. His mouth clicks shut. “What makes you think I’m an angel?” He’s hoping it’s just because he’s been talking about angels like he knows them (which he does) and not because he’s suddenly sprouted glowing wings. 

 

“I know when a man is telling the truth,” the priest replies solemnly. “And I know something Holy when I see it. You have a glow.” His eyes are on Dean’s head and the first thought that pops into his head is: _halo._

 

Does he have a _halo_ now? Great.

 

Dean slowly slides the lighter back into his pocket and steps forward. He can’t believe that of all the places to stop in America - of all the priests to randomly meet - that he’s managed to run into one of the very few special humans that are capable of seeing Grace and surviving. He lets his eyes slide to the side again, seeing the soft glow in the man’s heart. He doesn’t see that in every Tom, Dick and Harry he passes on the street, no matter how many different angles he tries. So this guy is special. Fan-fucking-tastic. 

 

“You see an angel and you think ‘I’ll go chat him up’, is that it?”

 

This time the priest shrugs - probably the most normal thing the man’s done this entire time.

 

So the guy’s chill. Awesome. “Okay, well, look. Don’t tell the rest of Heaven where we are, will you? No praying to any other angels by name, or they’ll hear you and come knocking. Trust me when I say they’re all grade-A assholes. Yeah, sorry to burst your bubble and all, but most of them don’t give a shit about humanity and the rest just like following orders a bit too much to care that what they’re doing might be wrong.”

 

The priest crosses himself very slowly. “I swear I will not reveal your location.” He pauses, and Dean can sense his hesitation, hovering there on the edge of his tongue. “May I...ask who I am speaking to? The names of the angels trying to prevent the evil of Satan from spreading?”

 

Dean grins, wondering what the guy’s going to make of this one. He jerks a thumb at himself. “Well, I’m Dean, then there’s Sammy - sorry, Samuel, I guess - and Castiel - that’s Cas.”

 

“Dean,” the man repeats, incredulously.

 

_Finally,_ Dean thinks. _I’ve cracked him. All it took was my_ name. “That’s me.”

 

There’s a flutter of wings and the soft swish of Cas’s coat. Dean is a little surprised by the sudden appearance, but he hears it long before the priest figures out they’ve been joined by another, so he’s able to hide it behind a facade of stuffing his hands in his pockets.   


“Dean,” Cas states solemnly, glancing around at the church. “I heard my name in a prayer. What are you doing here?”

 

The priest jumps up and glances between Castiel and Dean with impossibly wide eyes. His demeanor now completely rattled, the fresh ocean breeze is replaced by the scent of pine and a little crackle of ozone. “Your glow is much brighter,” he breathes. 

 

Cas tilts his head thoughtfully. “Ah. You are blessed with the Sight.”

 

The priest bows slightly, hands in a prayer. “Yes, Angel.”

 

Cas’s eyes slide to Dean’s and he raises an eyebrow. Dean gives him a flat stare. “He knows not to pray to the other angels. I’m not stupid, Cas.”

 

Cas nods slowly. “That...would be inadvisable.” He glances around. “I was curious what human might be praying to me,” he admits. “Not many know my name. Now that my curiosity is sated, I will continue my search for God.” As per usual, he never waits long enough for social niceties to conclude and simply vanishes again with a spread of his wings and a mighty snap. A single feather drifts to the floor, which happens every so often when Cas isn’t trying to be quiet about his comings and goings. 

 

“I...they were...great shadows…” the priest mumbles in awe. Awe is something Dean’s never tasted before either. It’s sharp and fresh, like peppermint. 

 

He ambles over and reaches down for the feather. Unlike the last time he tried, the pads of his fingers close around something buzzing and warm and he’s able to lift it up and twirl it, like an ordinary feather. Except ordinary feathers don’t faze in and out of dimensions and glow. When he turns around, the priest is squinting at his hand. “There is something…?”

 

“He left a feather behind.” Dean holds it up, wondering what the man is seeing. It’s probably similar to the first time Dean thought he saw Castiel’s wings. Unlike Dean at the time, the only thing this man feels is awe. Strangely, it’s feeding a sensation of giddiness in Dean’s chest, like when he was a kid and sucked down a whole balloon full of helium on a dare. Or that time the docs put him on a morphine drip. That had been pretty awesome. 

 

_This shit is getting surreal. Time to leave._

 

“Well, got a man to see about a bear.” And with those parting words of wisdom, Dean gets away from the church and its all-seeing priest like he’s escaping the depths of the Twilight Zone. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was 100% indulgence okay


	11. Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: SE05E08 - Changing Channels

_Reality_

_*_

Getting trapped by an archangel in a series of random t.v. shows hadn’t exactly been on Dean’s to-do list. Getting trapped by ex-archangel Gabriel, who was really that sonnovabitch Trickster who’d thought killing Dean over a hundred times day after day was a fun way to pass the time, had been even more of a surprise. Honestly, thinking back, that really ought to have been a massive neon sign. The Trickster had even _said_ he was trying to teach Sam a lesson about acceptance of fate and all that shit. Exactly the kind of move an angel would pull. 

 

High and mighty dicks thinking they knew best and mucking around with human lives like play toys... 

 

Of course, being an archangel, it didn’t take Gabriel long to work out something wasn’t quite right with Sam and Dean - mostly Dean. 

 

Dean had woken up that morning to the sight of iridescent down feathers scattered across his sheets and had proceeded to freak out for the next hour while Sam tried to reassure him that he had _not_ just sprouted wings over night. 

 

He hadn’t, from what he could tell, but he didn’t think he was far off the mark; and that was some freaky-ass shit right there. He, Dean Winchester, was shedding feathers like some kind of molting pigeon. So far he didn’t _feel_ different or unlike himself (except for the obvious), but…

 

Maybe nothing would happen until the wings...came through. 

 

And then there’s Gabriel, the goddamn Trickster-cum-Archangel. Or maybe it’s the other way around. 

 

Fortunately, they have him trapped in a ring of holy fire. Unfortunately, not before the vertically challenged dick gets enough hints about what’s going on. They still manage to get a full on apocalyptic rant out of him before he works it out. 

 

“...You were born to this, boys. It's your destiny! It was always you! As it is in heaven, so it must be on earth. One brother has to kill the other.” Gabriel is running his mouth and Dean just really wants to knock some sense into his stupid feather-brained noggin.

 

“I don’t think so,” he snaps, arms crossed. There’s a tension between his shoulder blades and in his chest which has been steadily building. He rolls them automatically - his shoulders just feel so _tight_.

 

He sees Gabriel open his mouth again before pausing and squinting. “Something _wrong_?” He crosses his own arms, mirroring Dean. “Don’t think I hadn’t noticed you’d been touched by Grace, Dean-o. I’m guessing you ‘n’ Cassie have…” he trails off and wiggles his eyebrows lasciviously. 

 

Dean blanches. “ _What?”_ He recalls when Cas had (uncomfortably) tried to avoid the topic of angel sex and feels a little violated - for _Cas_. “Dude, _no!_ Just...okay, no!” He shakes his head. And Cas isn’t even here to defend himself. 

 

“No,” Gabriel agrees while Dean turns to elbow Sam in the stomach for snickering. “It’s something else.” He crooks a finger. “Get over here.” 

 

“Fuck you, Sammy!” Dean snaps first at Sam, who’s not letting up on the laughter. “And fuck you too, dickwad.” He reaches back and scratches at a shoulder blade, because it’s suddenly itching like crazy. 

 

Gabriel’s eyes pop out of his skull. If Dean was strong enough to sense past the barrier of holy fire, he’d probably smell the ozone like a lightning strike right in his face. But Gabriel is good at hiding what he is and the holy fire blocks the rest, so he has to rely on facial cues. It’s...weird, and he feels like Gabriel’s not a real, thinking, feeling being because he can’t sense - smell, taste - his emotions. 

 

A shiver runs through him. It can’t have been that long since he started feeling people - how has it become so fundamental to his perception of reality so quickly?

 

 “Are you serious?” Gabriel suddenly whines to the ceiling. “Whose fucking idea was this? _Nephilim? Really?_ ” He glares at Sam and Dean, who both freeze warily. “Oh, calm down, I’m not going to kill you dunderheads.” He cocks his head to stare at Dean and his brother. It’s the first angel-like thing Dean’s seen the guy do. “How the hell did this even happen? It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Lucifer and Michael were supposed to dick it out wearing you two as the perfect prom dresses. It was _fate._ ”

 

Dean steps forward. Even though Gabriel’s emotions are cut off to him by the holy fire, he can still read a hint of weakness, a hint of confusion. Getting an archangel on their side, even if he hates the irritating little dick, would mean they’d have a _chance_. “Hey, isn’t this a _good_ thing? Your dick brothers can’t use me and Sammy to hack each other to pieces. It’s a win all around.”

 

“You bozos really think it’s that easy? Sure, maybe you’re off the table, Dean, but… Seriously, how the hell is this possible? This was _not_ in the plan!”

 

Dean exchanges a look with Sam. “How about before we discuss anything else, you bring Cas back from wherever you stashed him?”

 

For a second, Gabriel does nothing, but they see him waver, sigh, then he snaps his fingers. Cas trips out of the air with a weary flap and a small shower of feathers. Poor guy looks like he’s been through the ringer, his wings are crooked and his feathers are standing up on end and missing in places. 

 

“Shit, Cas, you okay? You look like crap, man.”

 

Cas shakes off his wings, a couple more feathers falling to the floor. “I’m fine. Hello, Gabriel.”

 

“Oh, you can see his wings, of course,” Gabriel says in response. “Let me guess, fledgling?”

 

Dean exchanges another glance with Sam, because...what the hell? But Cas seems to have a clue. “Yes. He’s already producing feathers.”

 

Dean flinches. Automatically he reaches behind him, half-expecting to feel feathers and down, but his hand meets nothing but air. Thank god for small mercies. 

 

“And what’s up with the Behemoth, then?” Gabriel gives Sam a nod. 

 

“His soul was bound. Both of their souls were bound after they were born. Whoever it was, they gave Mary Winchester a way to make sure her children would be safe.”

 

Gabriel actually looks somewhat interested now. He’s frowning and appears to be thinking deeply. “So, the True Vessels are out of the picture. Michael and Lucifer won’t be able to battle it out like they planned.” He cuts Sam and Dean sharp looks. “So either this means they wait, or they find extended family, but either way...it’s not going to stop my brothers. Fate will find a way.”

 

Sam steps up. “So help us find a way to stop it, Gabriel!”

 

“I told you, already, there’s no way to stop it! Michael’s determined to fight Lucifer no matter what! If they can’t use you two, they’ll find others!”

 

“But you just said it won’t be the same! You said it _had_ to be us because of the symmetry and because we’re their True Vessels. Well, not anymore!” Sam spreads his hands out in a ‘what now’ gesture. “Can the Apocalypse really happen without Michael and Lucifer using all their powers? We already know Lucifer’s current vessel isn’t good enough, that’s why he wants _me_.”

 

Gabriel stares at them, eyes flickering between them both. He glances down, sticks his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. When he looks up again, his face is blank. “Let me out.”

 

Dean crosses his arms. “Are you gonna help?”

 

“How about I promise not to smite your ass, chick-a-dee.”

 

“Dean.” Sam grabs his arms in a restraining hold. “Dude, don’t rise to the bait.” 

 

“Asswipe,” Dean mutters anyway, anger curling and twisting in his gut. _Chick-a-dee._ Implying _what_ exactly? He’d rather it be a jab at his masculinity or maturity than his humanity - or lack, thereof. 

 

“Don’t get your feathers in a bunch!” Gabriel smirks.

 

“Screw you, chuckles!”

 

“Dean,” Sam warns again. He addresses Gabriel using one of his squinty-eyed bitch faces. “So if we let you out, what then?”

 

“I consider my options.”

 

“And _our_ options?”

 

“I’ll consider those too.”

 

Sam is optimistic. Dean can feel him come to a decision. He glances at Dean with raised eyebrows. “Dean…”

 

Dean throws up his hands. Honestly, it’s probably as good as it’s going to get. As Gabriel has so unsubtly pointed out, this is _reality,_ not t.v.. Real life. Shit is going to go down. Dean just wants to be on the winning side with the least amount of casualties. 

 

“Let’s go.” 

 

Dean turns on the emergency sprinklers as they exit the building. They haven’t won anything, but they haven’t lost anything either. Right now he’s going to focus on a more immediate problem. 

 

He rolls his shoulders one more time before slipping into the Impala.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing....Gabriel! Who is not a happy bunny right now.   
> And in case you're wondering, yes, the chapter you've all been waiting for (don't deny it) is close at hand.


	12. Rebirth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: (Pre-)S05E09 - The Real Ghostbusters

_Rebirth_

_*_

It happens unexpectedly. Dean’s been bracing himself for days after the Gabriel incident. Sam’s been distracted with the ritual Bobby managed to unearth which will supposedly (with a few alterations) unbind his own soul and allow the natural development of his Grace, and though Dean thinks Sam is insane for wanting this, he has to admit that it’s probably better than the demonic taint currently infecting the kid’s blood. Or ending up as Lucifer’s meatsuit.

 

Dean doesn’t want to be an angel. He doesn’t want wings - he’s scared of flying for Christ’s sake. He doesn’t want to be inhuman, but by this point it’s really unavoidable. He’s trying to take it one day at a time, pushing back the panic and the disgust through a heavy dose of Dean Winchester rationalization. He tries to remind himself that not all angels are dicks - Cas, for one, his angel-mother for another. 

 

After his chat with the priest, he catches himself using angel-like mannerisms with increasing frequency...and that’s just plain _wrong_. Cas thinks his development is accelerating exponentially - his words, not Dean’s. 

 

Dean wakes up to more and more feathers in his bed. It’s so hard to believe they come from _his_ body. The feathers are like foreign invaders. They’re _the_ feathers, not _his_ feathers. Never _his._

 

Sam says he’s in denial. Dean’s not exactly disagreeing. 

 

He just thought it would be more gradual - that he’d have time to get used to it. But the day he wakes up with something heavier than a sheet smothering him, he tenses in anticipation...because he _knows_. He’d kind of expected a little more blood and gore - wings ripping grotesquely from his back in a spray of fluid and skin, maybe - not this unexpected warmth which has merely crept up on him so seamlessly. He’s never known any kind of monster transformation to involve anything less than screaming agony, but he wakes up that morning feeling well rested and in perfect health and he just _knows_. 

 

The wings aren’t heavy weights hanging off his back. He expected them to feel like a twenty pound backpack dragging him down from behind, but instead it’s just a burning warmth and the weight of a blanket. He feels unburdened, like he’s made of light, rather than flesh. Like being underwater, where gravity doesn’t exist and you’re floating in fractured sunlight.

 

There’s no actual bone and muscle involved, so it makes sense, when he thinks about it. Just because they _look_ like bird wings doesn’t mean they work exactly the same way. 

 

Dean drags himself from the bed and the wings, which had curled around him in his sleep, fan out and settle, half-spread behind him. He’s not _looking_ , but he can see them out of the corner of his eye.

 

Sam, he notes gratefully, is still fast asleep, sprawled across the second twin bed like a giant starfish. He tiptoes past the snoring mass of baby brother and drool and creeps into the bathroom. He’s unable to make the wings actually do anything - he feels them there in the same way he feels the rest of his limbs - a periphery awareness that they exist, but without physical touch to make them tingle they’re hard to focus on. When the trailing primary feathers pass straight through the edges of the doorframe, Dean is incredibly unnerved. He can’t _feel_ it. They’re like ghostly imprints - like someone made the illusion of wings around him, but they’re not actually _there_. 

 

The wings reflect the light as a soft downy grey, edged with a pearlescent white. It’s kind of ironic since Dean’s about as impure as they come, but the color of Grace-wings probably has nothing to do with purity. Dean stares at them in the mirror and can’t yet resign himself to their permanence. He keeps thinking he can just...take them off, like a Halloween costume. But they’re here to stay. 

 

He doesn’t do anything, but the wings twitch by themselves and pull up towards his body, arching slightly so they’re level with the top of his head. Folded up as they are, he can’t judge any kind of wingspan. Cas’s are at least sixteen, maybe eighteen feet in his current form. Dean thinks the ones attached to his back might be about the same. 

 

Taking a deep breath, he reaches behind him and his fingers connect with feathers. Finally, he feels something, on limbs that _shouldn’t_ _be there_. He takes another deep breath before continuing. 

 

Trying to spread the wing out with his arm contorted around backwards is worse than a game of drunk Twister. His hand is a soft, warm pressure on the feathers, but it’s not the same as skin on skin contact. He manages to get the right one to spread to the side enough that he can see how the feathers grow shorter as they approach his back. He thinks they might attach to his skin right down the line of his shoulder blade. 

 

It’s hard to imagine them coming _from_ his body. It’s easier to imagine they got...stuck on there somehow. Glued on, perhaps, or stitched into place. He can’t consciously move them, they seem to have a mind of their own, so they’re not _his._ Not really. 

 

He leans over the sink and curses. 

 

“Dean.”

 

Dean doesn’t jump. He’d felt Cas’s approach tingle across the length of each wing. So Dean doesn’t jump, even though he’s suddenly feeling with acute clarity two whole new limbs that _should not_ be there...but the damn wings snap out and flap. He clutches onto the edge of the sink and tries to reign them in. 

 

“Calm down,” Cas commands.

 

“Calm?” Dean manages. “You want me to be _calm_? I’ve got fucking wings!”

 

“They are your Grace,” Cas refutes calmly, ducking smoothly under a particularly vicious flutter of feathers. “They are not part of your physical body but a manifestation of your soul, therefore it is your emotions which control them, so _calm down_.”

 

That...actually makes a lot of sense. At the realization, the wings snap back in and curl up against his back, a warm, feathery weight. “They _feel_ real,” he mutters resentfully. 

 

“They are.” Cas’s confusion is like a flush of heat across the arches of his... _the_ wings. 

 

“But you just _said_ -”

 

“They are not _physical_ , but they are still very real, just as your soul is real. Grace can only be touched by another angel’s Grace, or a human soul. They don’t effect the physical plane.”

 

One of the wings almost seems to flutter smugly. The feathers poof up and resettle, and Dean tries to glare them into submission.

 

Cas takes this as his cue to stick his nose as close to Dean’s back as possible. He keeps his hands to himself, but Dean can still feel his gaze like a heavy pressure. “They are well formed and quite beautiful.” His gaze catches Dean’s eye. “Now that you have a fully developed Grace you will be able to use it in much the same way as an angel, Dean.”

 

This gives Dean pause. This entire time he’s been freaking out about growing wings, he’s never really stopped to consider what that might mean beyond ‘not human’. He’d kind of forgotten that angels could be seriously badass with the exorcising and the multi-dimensional hopping. “Dude, seriously?”

 

Cas blinks at him. “Yes, I am quite serious, Dean. You will be able to use them to fly and once you have enough experience, smite demons and warp reality.” His expression pinches. “I do not recommend doing the latter without serious consideration. Over-expending yourself can leave you vulnerable.”

 

Dean stares at the wings in the mirror. “So you’re saying I can do whatever as long as I got the juice in these things?”

 

To his amusement, Cas has to consider this turn of phrase for a moment. “Oh. I see. Yes. So long as they have...juice, you will be able to do...whatever. But if you exhaust yourself, it will not be pretty.”

 

There’s a rustling from the bed next to the bathroom. Princess Sammy finally awake to greet the morning. Trying to ignore the gentle weight against his back and the existence of extra freaking limbs, he brushes past Cas and sticks his head out the door frame. “Goood Morning, Princess!” Sam wipes a trail of drool off his cheek with a sleepy grumble and Dean grins. “Get enough beauty sleep?”  


“Shut - _yawn_ \- up, Dean.”

 

Dean saunters over to the foot of the bed, valiantly denying the way the wings try to help out by counter-balancing him. They may not weigh enough to drag him down, but it’s enough to be weird and it throws him off. 

 

Sam blinks at him through sleep-filled eyes for a few moments. Dean can see the bitchy retort building on his face until he stops with his mouth half-open and scrubs suddenly at his eyes. A lot more awake, he blinks rapidly at Dean. “D-Dean…”

 

Dean doesn’t shuffle nervously, he tries to act cool, but the stupid, girly wings give him away by fluttering around and drawing in close to his back. “You can see ‘em?”

 

“Y-yes.”

 

Cas joins the party. He glances between Dean and Sam thoughtfully. “I do not know whether your growth will correlate with your brother’s, Sam, but if you are seeing his Grace then you likely have less than a month.”

 

Sam gazes at Dean’s wings with rapture. “I...can’t see them exactly, it’s kind of just an outline. But it’s...Dean, you have Grace, man!”

 

“Yeah, I friggin’ noticed,” Dean grumbles. Stupid things fluff and preen under Sam’s attention and he mentally commands them to _‘Stop it!’_

 

It doesn’t really work. 

 

“How big are they?” Sam breathes, still in awe. At least Dean’s not smelling his morning breath at this distance, but he is smelling the pepperminty tang of admiration. 

 

“Dunno. Bout the same as Cas’s I guess.”

 

Sam spreads his arms out in a facsimile of flapping wings. “Can you...you know.”

 

Cas turns his expectant gaze on Dean. “Have you figured out how to control your wings, yet, Dean?”

 

In answer, the wings poof out at Dean’s desire to shudder at the implications. They’re not _his_ wings, goddamnit! He doesn’t _want_ the damn things! 

 

“Can’t you just...move the muscles?” Sam ponders.  


“What muscles?” Dean points out dryly. 

 

“Dean’s wings, like all angel wings, are made Grace and are controlled by the soul. The soul is nothing but thoughts, feelings and impressions of life. Dean needs to use his soul to control them, otherwise they will continue to respond to his emotions and surrounding environment,” Cas explains again. 

 

Sam gazes at them and squints, which makes him look severely constipated (in Dean’s experienced opinion). “That makes sense,” he mumbles. 

 

“And because it’s that frickin’ easy!”

 

Sam and Cas gang up on him with varying levels of bitchface. Can’t they see that he’s trying his damnedest _not_ to think about what’s sprouted out of his back? Awesome angel powers or no awesome angel powers, he’d like a little time to come to terms with his new lot in life! At least so far he hasn’t had the sudden urge to clean up his act, dress in a suit and stop cussing, drinking and picking up girls. Thank God for small mercies.

 

He discovers that apart from being conscious of their presence, and _knowing_ they’re there and a part of him, Dean’s morning routine doesn’t really change. He can still brush his teeth, have a shower, eat breakfast and get dressed all like he normally does. The wings just don’t seem to affect anything on a physical plane, the exceptions being himself, Cas, and Sam. Cas tells him that regular humans with no psychic or otherworldly gifts will not be able to affect his wings, but that he should probably avoid letting people walk straight through them, as the touch of their soul against his Grace will ‘not be pleasant’. Knowing Cas, that’s probably an understatement. Which leads them back around to learning to control the damn things so they go where he wants and not where _they_ want. 

 

It’s like adopting a dog and teaching it how to sit, stay and roll over. 

 

Dean’s still struggling with it when they get an urgent text message from Chuck telling them it’s life or death, and an address. Sam thinks he should go alone, because Dean’s _clearly_ not ready for a hunt, but Dean tells him to shut his piehole and get in the damn car. 

 

They drive all night. It’s only a small consolation that Dean’s stupid wings keep not only him awake, but Sammy as well.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go. It happened. Voila. The wings are finally here! Poor Dean. Hopefully I did the transition justice. From here on out it gets a bit more interesting. (Oh, and if anyone wants a visual, remember those links from chapter 1?)


	13. Fans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: S05E09 - The Real Ghostbusters

_Fans_

_*_

_Goddamn, friggin’ wings_ , Dean thinks as he gets out of the car in a hurry and they snap out in a large, gasping stretch of iridescent feathers. It’s enough to make Sam halt in his tracks and stare. Dean hates to admit how it releases the tension from hunching over the wheel all night long. Automatically, he rolls his shoulders and the wings flap a few times before deciding they’re content and settling back down in that three-quarters closed position they seem to favor. 

 

“Move it, Sammy!” he barks in his brother’s face. 

 

Sam startles and jerks around, taking off at a fast jog for the large, old-school hotel. Dean begins to follow him but the wings flare out and yank him to a halt when he sees row after row of black, 1967 Impalas parked next to theirs. 

 

_What. The. Hell._

 

“Dean!”

 

They come upon Chuck pacing in front of the hotel, looking a tad nervous, but otherwise still in possession of all his limbs and bodily fluids. When Chuck sees them, he looks surprised, which should have clued Dean in, really, but then Chuck starts squinting at him, scent mixing with a hint of curiosity, and Dean knows _that_ look now like the back of his hand. He crosses his arms defensively, the wings arching and flaring in tandem. “What?” he barks. “Got something to say?”

 

Chuck flushes. “I, uh, just...um...heard, er, saw the whole...wing...thing. Are they...do you really have them? Are they there?”

 

The stupid things preen and one of them flicks out in a kind of shrugging motion to follow the jerk of his shoulder. “Yeah. They’re there. Annoying as hell, but permanently _there_.”

 

“Whoa,” Chuck breathes, eyes wide. Goddamn peppermint is back. Dean holds his breath, not that it does much good.

 

Sam snaps his fingers in Chuck’s face. “Chuck, focus, you said it was life or death?”

 

“What?” Chuck looks at them both blankly. “Wait, guys, what are you doing here?”

 

Sam whips out his phone so he can shake it in Chuck’s face. “The text. Life or death. This address. Any of this ringing a bell?” There are waves of itchy prickling sparks rolling off his shoulders and thudding against Dean’s feathers. It’s annoying as hell to have to feel Sam’s irritation and one of the wings shoots out and whacks Sam on the back of the head. For the first time, Dean’s done something he intended to do with them and it surprises him just as much as it surprises Sam, who yelps and ducks a second swipe. 

 

“What the hell, Dean?”

 

“Stop feeling so much! You’re a cesspit of drama and emo! Jesus Christ, can you just _stop?_ ”

 

Sam opens his mouth to complain, Dean can see it coming, but then a strange expression crosses his face and he falls silent. “Oh. _Oh._ ” Dean can practically see the light bulb come on in his head as he figures it out.

 

“Uh...guys?” Chuck interjects. He’s gaping, and feeling like a third wheel, if his emotions are anything to go by. “Guys! I didn’t send you any text! What are you…” he trails off and puts a hand to his face. “Oh no.”

 

Dean tears his attention away from Sam’s big revelation. “What?”

 

Before Chuck can answer, there’s a feminine squeal and emotions of lust, desire, awe, and pure, unadulterated happiness hit Dean so hard he sways. “The fuck?” If it weren’t for the wings fanning out behind him and catching him, he thinks he probably would have fallen on his ass. 

 

“SAM!” the voice screams. “You made it!” 

 

Next to Dean, Sam backs away a few steps and his face scrunches up like he’s got a bad smell under his nose. Ha, serves the bitch right to have to put up with the shit Dean’s been putting up with for weeks now! Maybe next time he won’t be so eager to throw his humanity away. 

 

“Uhh...Becky, right?” Sam manages through a pained smile. 

 

The girl charges them like a two-ton rhinoceros. Her eyes are feverish and the devotion she feels for Sam is frankly bordering on complete obsession. It’s fucking creepy. 

 

“You remembered,” she breathes. Her voice lowers in pitch, like she’s trying hard to be sexy (but failing. Seriously, seriously failing), “You’ve been _thinking about me_.”

 

Sam chokes on the heady atmosphere and, like he’s eight again, suddenly grabs one of Dean’s flared out wings and yanks it between them like a shield. Sonnovabitch! No one but Dean has ever touched the things before and it sends a jolt of sensation straight down his spine. His gut clenches unpleasantly. He stumbles towards Sam, pulled by his brother’s strength, and his other wing tries to compensate by flaring like a fan, feathers spread to catch his balance. “Sonnava--SAM!”

 

“Whoa!” Chuck holds up his hands.

 

“Let go of my goddamn wing, you bitch!” Every part of Dean is in agreement over this and he’s determinedly pulling against Sam’s grip, though it hurts because Sam’s got his sausage-like fingers clutched deeply in Dean’s feathers. “I swear to God I’ll smite your ass!”

 

Finally, Sam lets go. Dean snaps the wing towards him easily, because he wants nothing more than to check it’s okay. The feathers are all twisted and it fucking _hurts_. It hovers near his face, feathers fanning and he runs quick fingers through it, turning the things around and straightening the lines of feathers until they stop stinging. It’s like a less painful version of a dislocated shoulder - each feather that’s not in its correct place twinges and stings like hell until it’s put back. If he stops to think about it, he supposes it’s the physical representation of Sam digging his grubby fingers into Dean’s Grace and twisting it out of shape.

 

Sam gapes at him. “Dude, are you... _preening?_ ”

 

Dean glares at him. “You do that again and they won’t find all the pieces.” He steps back for good measure, other wing arching protectively. 

 

Chuck and Becky are both gaping at them, Chuck smells like he’s been plugged into an electric socket and Becky’s excitement is building like the swell of a storm. 

 

“Oh my god, oh my god!” she screams. The attention she’d fixed on Sam suddenly steamrolls Dean. “Wings? Like...like _angels?_ Dean are you an _angel?_ ” She peers around him frantically. “Why can’t I see them? Are they like invisible? Can I touch them? Oh please, please can I touch them?”

 

Dean backs away like he’s got hellhounds circling him. Matter of fact, he’d kind of prefer the hellhounds. At least he’s allowed to fight those off. He can’t really gank an overexcited fan, now can he? “Hell. NO. No one touches the wings _ever again_.” Sam’s embarrassment and apology are nudging up against his feathers like a skulking cat, but the wing sort of shudders and shakes it off. Huh. Useful. “You got that, Sam? I’m not your personal shield. You can’t handle it, too fucking bad.”

 

“I know, okay. I’m sorry,” Sam whines. He gives Dean his puppy-dog-eyes, like that’ll magically make it all better. “It just...took me by surprise. It was a lot to deal with. I...freaked.”

 

Dean’s wings are making well sure they’re out of reach of Sam’s grubby meathooks, but Becky has no such compunctions. She’s circling him like a shark, boring holes into his back like she’s got x-ray vision, and only the overwhelming desire not to be touched is keeping the wings out of reach. They flare and fold and dance all over the place, avoiding so much as brushing her clothes with the tips of his feathers. 

 

“Deeeaan,” she coos. “I don’t feel anything. Where are they?”

 

“Invisible and intangible!” he snaps. Whirling on Chuck, he demands, “What the hell, Chuck?”

 

But Chuck is too busy trying to fend off some guy with a clipboard. The guy is hovering persistently, eyeing him and Sammy like they’re five cans short of a six-pack and in need of a one-way ticket to the nuthouse. He directs his attention mostly at Chuck and complains, “Seriously, pal, we’ve gotta get the ball rolling.”

 

Chuck’s shoulders slump and Dean senses resignation. “Guys,” Chuck tells them mournfully. “I’m really sorry. For everything.”

 

Becky’s swimming in excitement and runs up the stairs of the hotel with it trailing after her likean overpowering perfume. “Sam, Dean, come on! You’re going to want to see this!”

 

Dean exchanges a look with Sam. Sam’s face is still scrunched up like he can’t handle it all. Drama queen. Deciding to hell with it, Dean follows the chick up the stairs. At the very least he wants to know what the hell is going on, and he also wouldn’t mind a drink, either. He damn well deserves one after all this crap. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rehashing this episode is entirely indulgent on my part. But it also turned into a way to give Dean some time to get used to things.


	14. Make-believe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: S05E09 - The Real Ghostbusters

_Make-believe_

_*_

It’s like walking into the real Twilight Zone. People dressed exactly like him and Sammy, right down to the amulet the kid gave him for Christmas. What, did they make them in bulk, or something? Demons, scarecrow gods, yellow-eyes, it’s like a fucking monster menagerie. 

 

Sam pulls out his best bitchface yet and Dean has to do a shuffle dance to avoid having any of these creepy wannabes walk through his wings. He tries to command them to pull in tightly against his back, but they don’t want to obey. Stupid things are agitated by his agitation and flutter about, mimicking his body language like a pair of particularly expressive eyebrows.

 

“Stupid things,” he mutters. 

 

Becky, who hasn’t left them alone for a minute, sidles closer, stars in her eyes. 

 

“Becky,” Sam commands her attention away. Dean can feel how torn she is, between him and Sam. “What is this?”

 

Her whole face lights up. Dean’s never seen anyone who isn’t being squeezed to death manage to make their eyes bug out like that. “It’s awesome! A supernatural convention, the first ever!” She crowds his little brother back. Dean’s not helping him out of this one - Sammy deserves every ounce of discomfort for pulling that wing stunt. “Hey, Sam, do _you_ have wings too?”

 

“Uhhh,” is Sam’s intelligent response. 

 

She breathes heavily. “Oh my god, are you _both_ angels?”  

 

Nerdy Sammy rears his head. “Well, technically we’re Nephilim, you know, half-angel, half-human?”

 

Becky gasps. “Wow, really? Oh, I can’t wait to read about it! That is _so_ sexy.”

 

Dean really, really needs that drink now. 

 

Becky herds them with the rest of the crowd towards a large double-doored room with rows of cheap plastic chairs. Everyone’s rushing to get in close to the stage where, to Dean’s horror, hangs a great big cut-out arcane circle surrounding a pentagram, and the words ‘First Annual Supernatural Convention’ colored onto cardboard strips and taped together in a parody of legitimacy. 

 

Dean can’t help the climb of his eyebrows. He and Sam keep to the back waiting for the other shoe to drop. Since the Wing Touching Incident (he’s going to have to think of a way to pay Sammy back for that one), he’s twitchier than normal. So many people brushing past him is making him feel claustrophobic. He needs to get a grip but the dumbass wings just really aren’t cooperating with anything he orders them to do unless it’s self-preservation. 

 

Some official looking dude gets up on stage, the crowd hushes, and he announces the start of the convention and the day’s itinerary. Dean doesn’t hear much. His brain gets stuck on the bit about the panel on the ‘Secret Life of Dean’ because what the fuck, these jokers can’t be serious? Sam shoots him a mildly worried look, like he thinks Dean’s about to explode or something since he’s all juiced up with angel-Grace now. 

 

Dean’s a lot more interested in what the vaunted _creator_ is going to say. Chuck looks one breath away from upchucking all over the front row. 

 

It sort of just gets worse from there. Chuck’s the picture of jittery introvert forced into the spotlight. He stutters and stumbles through every explanation. The questions just get more and more ridiculous. 

 

Put their weapons on bungees? Really? That’s the stupidest idea he’s heard yet. He wants to grab the pompous, German idiot who suggested it and dump him in the middle of a knife fight and see how well he fares with a bungee-corded machete. Against his back, his wings twitch in thought, like they’re considering helping him do just that. 

 

Becky storms down the aisle to defend their honor, but Dean’s not paying attention. The damn wings are fidgeting like crazy and Sam keeps shooting him ‘cut it out’ looks in between pissy scowls. 

 

Then one guy stands up and asks, “Yeah, at the end of the last book, Dean goes to Hell. So, what happens next?”

 

The wings finally still, just as interested as him to hear the answer, apparently. 

 

Chuck shifts nervously. His eyes keep passing over Dean and Sam, clearly trying to pretend they’re not there. “Oh. Well. There lies an announcement, actually. You’re all going to find out.” Those shifty eyes flicker quickly over to Dean and Sam. Dean lowers his chin, lips pressed tightly. This oughta be good. “Well, uh, thanks to a wealthy Scandinavian investor, we’re going to start publishing again.”

 

The room erupts into complete pandemonium. Dean turns to Sam at exactly the same time as his brother. Sammy’s eyes reflect the murder in his own. Dean’s hand strays to the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans. “Chuck is asking for it.”

 

“Dean…” Sam cautions. His eyes are fixed on something above Dean’s head. The damn wings are arching in a show of dominance. He’s turning into a goddamn peacock. Friggin’ awesome. 

 

He turns and stalks out the door after the rest of the fans. Behind him one of the lights on the wall closest to him sparks and cracks. Dean pauses. “Was that-”

 

Sam gives him a look. “Uh, yeah.”

 

“Sonnavabitch.”

 

The light bursting is a bit of a wake up call. It reminds Dean that the wings aren’t just there for show - they’re only the physical representation of the fact that Dean is now a suped up angel hybrid of unknown power. If even lower class angels like Cas can pull off time-travel then Dean’s got some serious mojo and pretty much zero control.

 

By the time Dean and Sam corner Chuck, Dean’s managed to talk himself down from the threat of murder. Sam also won’t stop throwing Dean all these limpid-eyed worried looks, which is making it hard to keep calm. He’s officially swimming in a heady perfume of rotting fruit à la Sammy. It’s giving him a headache. 

 

“We don’t have time for this crap,” Dean tells Chuck, which comes out a lot less threatening than he’d planned. Mostly because half the threat comes from the wings arching, flared, over the top of his head that Chuck is incapable of seeing. Sammy’s certainly keeping his distance. 

 

“Hey, I didn’t call you!” Chuck protests.

 

Sam lights into the guy with his menacing bad-cop act. “He means the _books_ , Chuck. _Why_ are you publishing more _books_?”

 

“Um...for food and shelter?” Chuck’s got balls.

 

A liquid heat flares out from Dean’s shoulders - another antique light blows its fuse. Now that he knows it’s him, he can kind of feel the power freely rippling off his wings and shorting out all the electricity. Grace and technology apparently don’t mix so well in large quantities. 

 

Chuck darts his eyes to the wall. “Um...you do remember I’ve got an Archangel watching me, right?”

 

Dean takes a deep breath, turns around and calmly leaves, jaw clenched hard enough to crack a few teeth. Leaves Sam to deal with it, because he’s not going to be responsible for incurring any more damage - to the hotel _and_ the stupid prophet. Or himself, if that dick Raphael catches wind there’s a hostile Grace presence near his goddamned Prophet of the Lord. 

 

He makes a bee-line for the bar, because he damn well deserves his drink by now for having to put up with this crap. He’s half-way to ordering a shot of Jack, or maybe just straight-up vodka by this point, when he hears a woman’s scream. 

 

He doesn’t know what happens - it’s like a jumble of light, heat, and fractions of seconds. One infinitesimal moment he’s got an elbow against the bar and is getting ready to reach for a shot, then the next, the scream of a woman in danger penetrates his brain, registers, and he just... _reacts._ Turning, his wings snap outwards in imitation of a move he’s seen Cas do before; he estimates the approximate location of the scream, and then the wings grow taut with some kind of tension. One second he’s pushing away from the bar, the next it’s a flash of lightning heat racing through his body and he’s towering over a maid, who gapes at him with wide eyes, mouth frozen open in the middle of her scream. She chokes back the noise, in shock. 

 

Dean blinks, trying to think of something convincing to say that involves waving his hand and Obi-wan Kenobi-ing this girl into forgetting she just saw him appear out of nowhere. Because that’s exactly what he’s just done. _Appeared_. _Poofed._ Freakin’ angel-zapped himself across the room in flurry of feathers and Grace. And he has no idea how he did it, either.

 

Sam’s astonishment crackles across the surface of his wings moments before he skids to a stop behind him. “Dean! How the hell-”

 

Dean’s wings flare, shaking off the uncomfortable sizzle of shock. The girl in the maid outfit finally gathers herself. “Y-you…” she points a trembling finger at him. “I… Did I just black out? You...you totally just appeared from thin air!That wasn’t part of the script!”

 

A crowd is beginning to gather and Dean’s still standing there dumbly. He can’t believe this is happening. Of all the stupid, idiotic stunts to pull...he’d have expected this kind of shit from I-don’t-know-how-to-interact-with-the-rest-of-humanity Cas. 

 

Sam makes a noise of impatience, the bitter tang hitting Dean’s nostrils at the same time. He wrinkles his nose. “What happened?” Sammy asks the girl in his patented civilian soothing voice. “Why did you scream?”

 

The girl blinks. “Oh right.” Her voice lowers enticingly. “I saw a ghost. A woman. She was…” She puts a hand to her forehead. “Okay, wait, now seriously, did I like black out somewhere in between, because I swear to _god_ you weren’t standing there before and then like... _poof_...just like a...a...ghost... you’re right in front of me!”

 

One of the dressed-up fans eyes up Dean with interest. “This is the ghost you saw, miss?”

 

Dean scowls. “Now wait just a goddamn minute, I’m _not_ a-” he’s cut off by the click of a nerf gun. A honest to god fucking nerf gun. A spongy, flying piece of crap hits him right in the chest. Dean stares at the spot on his shirt that’s just been violated by a _nerf dart_ in utter disbelief.

 

“Psst, dude, you’re supposed to like, disappear now. That was rock salt!” 

 

“ _Dean!”_ Sammy hisses under his breath, stinking of worry and anxiety. “ _Don’t_ …”

 

Dean is fed up. This is...this has gone far enough _._ “Right, you little punk. Gimme that!” The nerdy little brat isn’t half as fast as Dean and his spanking new angel wings. He wrenches the nerf gun out of the guy’s outstretched hand just like taking candy from a baby and throws it against the wall. The plastic toy cracks and breaks, taking a good chunk of the wallpaper with it. Either Dean had thrown that with more force than he’d intended to...or he’s got super angel strength now. That’s just fucking peachy. 

 

“Uh, he’s not the ghost,” the maid finally decides to comment, eyes darting to the broken nerf gun. 

 

“Hey-” the idiotic (and annoying, very, very annoying) fan starts.

 

“Oh my gosh, Dean!” chirps an even more irritating voice - Becky - cutting off the chubby dude dressed as Dean with the strength of her shriek. “You’re messing up the game!”

 

“Game!” Dean exclaims, whirling on her. His wings flare up so high they brush the ceiling and two bulbs explode in a shatter of glass the moment his irritated, molten Grace passes through them.

 

Sam dives over Becky, shielding her from the sharp splinters. Dean has only a split second to think before he pushes the maid down and away. Instinctively, his wings flare over his head in a protective curve of feathers, but it should be useless, because Dean knows they’re intangible...except in that split second he feels a lick of hot Grace flare down his back and spread out along each feather with the strength of his intent. It turns into a forcefield that pushes each shard away from Dean and consequently the girl. The dressed-up freaks behind them aren’t quite so lucky. What bounces off of Dean and Sam only heads straight for the group of grade-A nerds and they squeal like a bunch of stuck pigs. 

 

When it’s all over, Dean straightens to see Chuck standing a few meters away, mouth open in horror. Becky, he can sense (and taste-- _oh dear god_ ) is in literal heaven, all curled up in Sam’s large ape arms (he deserves this though. This is all part of Dean’s revenge. It is.) The maid sits on her ass, stunned, staring at him like she doesn’t know whether to thank him or run away screaming. 

 

“I-” Dean begins, guilt beginning to bloom. He never quite meant to do all _this_. He isn’t some kind of avenging angel and he didn’t want - isn’t going to be the inhuman dick that acts holier than thou and uses his powers to intimidate the masses. 

 

_This_ right here is what Dean was afraid was going to happen to him. That he’d lose sight of being human. That his... _powers_ would get the better of him and he’d _hurt_ people. 

 

“OKAY!” Chuck decides to cut off all the whimpers and exclamations and questions with a loud shout. He raises his arms and flails them around until he has everyone’s attention. “Well, um, surprise? Yeah, just part of the entertainment, guys. Thought we’d surprise you with a more realistic enactment of what happens when you piss off a supernatural creature. Special exploding lights effects and all!”

 

“Um.” Like a reenactment of high school, one of the nerds raises his hands. 

 

“Yes?” asks Chuck. 

 

The guy points at Dean. “Well if he’s supposed to be like, Dean, and um, the big guy here’s supposed to be Sam, right? So, how come Dean’s got ghost powers? Is he possessed?” The kid’s eyes go wide. “Oh my god, does Dean come back from Hell as a demon? Is that it?”

 

Chuck wrings his hands and laughs nervously. “Heh, well, good question, but I’m afraid that’ll spoil the real surprise, so...continue with the hunt!” He flaps his hands towards the maid, who is clearly trying to work out what part of all that just happened was her imagination and what was real. She’s giving Dean an appreciative look though, and Dean is exceptionally glad to note that he doesn’t feel any kind of burning pain or shock when he contemplates taking her back to a seedy motel and having his way with her. From experience he already knows she’s feisty and has a healthy set of lungs.

 

But instead, she gets up, brushes herself off primly and affects a frightened expression. Two seconds later every last nerd and nerdette are listening with rapt attention to her ‘terrifying tale of terror’. 

 

Becky yanks them aside and shoves a sheet into Sam’s hands. She’s grinning from ear to ear. “Here you go. You guys are _so_ gunna win!”

 

Sam takes one look at the paper and glances up at Dean, radiating confusion. “Dude…” He hands over it slowly. 

 

_Dad's Journal. Dear Sam and Dean, this hotel is haunted. You must hunt down the ghost. Interview witnesses, discover clues, and find the bones. First team to do so wins a $50 gift card to Sizzler. Love Dad_

 

Dean jerks his head in the direction of the bar. “I was just about to order a coupla shots.”

 

Sam’s relief is palatable. “Yes, please. This seriously cannot get any weirder.”

 

Dean doesn’t care if the whole hotel burns down around him, this time he’s going to have his goddamned drink and he’s going to _enjoy it_.

 


	15. Angelic Wrath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: S05E09 - The Real Ghostbusters

_Angelic Wrath_

_*_

Dean’s a pretty down to earth guy. He loves the simple things in life, like good, hot, all-American food, beer, and pie (which deserves its own category, really), women, cars, and guns. He loves the feeling of a job well done - people saved and one less evil monster running loose - and if that gets him a thank you or a home-cooked meal, all the better. He doesn’t ask for much, just the safety of his family and loved ones, and eventually, a hero’s death. 

 

The Devil and the Apocalypse and goddamn friggin’ angels had never been in Dean’s life plan, but even that he could accept. They’re just the granddaddy of all evil monsters that need to be put down, and once he and Sam’ve ganked ‘em, they can move on. 

 

But this? Wings and Grace and fucking _gospels_? Hundreds of nerdy American busybodies reading about his and Sammy’s lives like it’s a god be damned toy-story adventure? Speculating and analyzing it to hell and back and thinking they know everything because Dean and Sam aren’t _real, thinking, feeling_ people?

 

Well, that’s just about the limit of shit Dean’s willing to put up with. Deals with demons? Piece of cake. Hell? Would rather not remember it, but honestly par for the course by now. Angels and Lucifer? Yeah, okay, bring it on. Goddamn fucking Supernatural fan convention? Get him the fuck outta dodge right the fuck _now_. 

 

Fuck. 

 

Dean slams back another shot and groans. He’s trying his damnedest not to overhear all the idiots out there pretending to be him, Sam and Bobby (and Rufus and Ellen and Jo and Ash), but when you’re part angel, apparently that means your hearing is super-sensitive. That one had crept up on Dean really gradually, and he’d been so focused on the whole empathetic thing and the technicolor vision thing he’d barely noticed when he’d started hearing shit going on all the way across a crowded room. 

 

Right now, it’s all too apparent. 

 

“Another,” he barks, slamming the shot glass down. The girl next to him, the one dressed like a ghost, looks up from her text long enough to shoot him a raised eyebrow. Dean ignores her - he’s got bigger fish to fry tonight, like pickling his brain in alcoholic bliss. 

 

Not that it seems to be working very well. 

 

“Dude. Might wanna lay off the hard stuff.” Sammy, the good Samaritan. 

 

Dean lets out a long-suffering sigh. “ _Dude_ ,” he mimics, “do you not _see_ this place?”

 

Sam looks around them with an expression of mortification. “Yeah, okay, point.” He wrinkles his nose. “Dean, how did you ever put up with all this...this... _crap_.”

 

Sammy’s usually all about the sharin’ and carin’, but apparently today he’s relegated it to ‘crap’. Dean shrugs. “You get used to it.”

 

“It tastes awful. My tongue is never going to be the same again.”

 

Dean knocks back the now-full shot glass and smacks his lips. The alcohol burns a path straight to his stomach. Awesome stuff. “I dunno why it does that. It’s annoying though.”

 

Sam shrugs. “Maybe cause we’re, you know…”

 

Dean wants to laugh. What, now Sam can’t say it out loud? Or is he worried people will overhear? They could probably exorcize a demon right in the middle of this cuckoo's nest and all these chuckleheads would probably just clap and gasp over the awesome special effects. “Nephilim, dude.”

 

Sam looks affronted. He does an obvious eye-roll to indicate the present company of weirdos and raises his eyebrows to say ‘Really? You wanna talk about this right here?’. Dean is pretty sure Sammy’s underwear is cutting off the blood flow to his brain because in case he hasn’t noticed, Dean can’t get more obvious than materializing in front of a girl and exploding all the lights on them. As Chuck’s hastily constructed explanation seems to be holding up fairly well, he figures he could do just about anything and they’d write it off as a demonstration. “Look,” he points out, “they all think it’s fantasy.”

 

Sam bitches, “Our lives aren’t _fantasy_ , Dean. It’s not right.”

 

“Tell that to Chuck.”

 

“Tell that to the _angels_ ,” Sam corrects. 

 

They’re unable to continue the conversation as there’s a very hard to ignore confrontation going on not far behind them. One of the kids playing the...LARP game (LARPing game?) not only sounds completely freaked, but smells and tastes completely freaked too. 

 

“For the last time, I’m not making this up, okay? She’s upstairs, a real live dead ghost!”

 

Dean’s hunter instincts have him already rising from his seat and strolling over casually. The other nerd spots him and Sam before they’re in speaking distance and points quickly. “Hey, look, I’m sure it was just one of the ghost actors like those two. Remember those earlier special effects?”

 

The kid who smells like fear whirls on Dean and his brother. The fear shifts over to suspicion. “Hey...was it really? Tell me the truth. That thing upstairs totally beat the hell outta me and vanished right into me! So tell me how you can do that with special effects and no strings or lights or cameras, huh?”

 

Dean decides this is karma coming back to bite him in the ass. Sammy tastes resigned. His baby brother glances once at Dean, then turns back to the guy. “Tell us in full detail what you saw.”

 

The kid hesitates, but his friend urges him on. “I bet they can tell you exactly how their special effects crew did it, okay?”

 

The kid draws himself up. He’s daring Dean and Sam to try to prove to him that he _didn’t_ see a real ghost. Dean’s not feeling terribly optimistic that it wasn’t. It would totally figure they’d have an actual ghost unearthed with all this Supernatural Convention crap going on around them. “Okay, fine. So there’s this kid and he _looks_ dead, you know? And not just like make-up dead, but like _dead_ dead. It’s creepy. He says something about, um, that Gore woman not letting them have fun and just vanishes right in front of my eyes! So I kinda freak and run, but the next thing I know something invisible is picking me up and it doesn’t feel like rope or a person, but it _throws_ me into this glass case and all over this room and I’m hanging _upside down,_ dude, you get that? Upside-down and no one’s holding me up there! Then there’s this woman, and I think it’s the real Gore chick because she looks seriously dead and she’s like see-through and she rushes me and disappears right into me! So how do you explain that, huh?”

 

Dean and Sam exchange one more look. Definitely a ghost. 

 

“Well-” begins Dean. He stops, because how does he explain that, ‘Yes, that was a real ghost, and no, he and Sammy aren’t special effects actor guys’. 

 

“Kid-”

 

“Alex.”

 

“Alex,” Sam repeats, “you said there was a little boy? And he said what?”

 

“That Miss Gore won’t let them have any fun.”

 

“Them? You sure about that?”

 

Kid - Alex - scowls. “I dunno, dude! Maybe? I thought that’s what he said, okay?”

 

Sam turns to Dean. “Dean, are you thinking-”

 

“Okay, seriously!” Alex explodes before Sam can get off much more than Dean’s name. “This isn’t a game, you jerks! And I know it wasn’t your dumb special effects, so stop pretending!”

 

Dean’s had about all he can take. He keeps saying that, but it’s true. He’s reached his breaking point, and Supernatural convention or no convention, he’s not putting up with this bullshit anymore. He’s going to treat this like he treats the rest of their cases, and if that means intimidating a witness into some goddamned respect, so be it. “Now you listen here, you little punk. I don’t know _jack_ about special effects, but I know ghosts, so if you want to live through this you’ll shut up and let the experts do the talking, got it?”

 

“So it _was_ a ghost!” Alex exclaims. 

 

His buddy, the one dressed like Dean (which is just insulting really, because the kid looks like a strong wind could blow him over), glares at Dean. “No, Alex, these jerks are just doing their job, pretending to be Sam and Dean, but none of it’s _real_.”

 

Dean reaches for his gun, feathers puffed and stiff all along the intangible, invisible arches of his wings. 

 

“Dean!” Sam’s hand grabs his wrist before he can unlatch the safety. 

 

“What? I wasn’t going to actually shoot the punk.”

 

“Dude, put it away.”

 

“Oh shit,” whispers the punk in question. “That’s totally real!”

 

“Yes,” says Dean like he’s talking to a five year old. “And if you keep pissing me off I’m going to shoot you in the ass. With a _real_ bullet. Now, you and your little friend get outta here and let me and Sammy do our jobs. Unless you want to end up as ghost chow?” Out of the corner of his mouth he mutters to Sam, “Remind me to kill Chuck later, yeah?”

 

“We’ll have to figure out a way not to alert Raphael, but I think it can be done,” Sammy repliesdryly and Dean is reminded once again why he loves his little brother.

 

“Raphael?” nerd number two whispers to nerd number one.

 

“Archangel.” Dean looms, arms crossed, wings arched. “He’s a dick. His answer to everything is to fry it or blow it up into teeny tiny pieces. So, what’s the lesson here? Don’t piss off angels. What are you doing right now? Pissing me the fuck off. Scram!”

 

They finally scamper. Sam begs the ceiling for patience. “Was that really necessary?”

 

Dean doesn’t bother replying. It’s not like the punks will really believe what he says, anyway, so it’s kind of cathartic to just blurt out everything without fear of being tossed in a mental asylum. After giving Sam the stink-eye, he stalks off in the direction of the hotel manager, since he’s probably the only guy in the building Dean can actually take seriously. 

 

“You know you called yourself an angel, right?” Sammy throws the words out casually.

 

“Intimidation tactics, Sammy. Focus.”

 

The hotel manager looks up from his desk as Dean leans on the edge, wings open and friendly, and gives him a winning smile. 

 

“Don’t think this conversation is over,” Sam hisses under his breath. Dean thinks if he had his wings they would probably be bristling. 

 

“It can wait.” Dean shoots back, before turning to address the only _normal_ guy in this entire building. “Hello. Excuse us. Mind if we ask you a few questions?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, more indulgent episode rehashing. Dean is not having a good day. Poor guy.


	16. Disillusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: S05E09 - The Real Ghostbusters

_Di(si)llusion_

_*_

Dean is forced to draw his gun a second time because he’s frankly surrounded by idiots. He can’t believe he and Sam are having to bargain with two annoying nerds, both of who think this entire affair is a game and both of who are in the worst shape humanly possible. 

 

If Dean doesn’t get to shoot something soon, he’s going to explode, and then the whole hotel will go with him. When he spares a moment to sort through his _feelings_ , he ponders that he’s become more emotional ever since he started developing Grace. Which would honestly explain so much. It’s probably why angels are such dicks - they’re totally repressed, because if they allow themselves to feel anything, they go off the deep end. Exhibit A: Lucifer. 

 

It also explains why whenever Cas is pissed off, he disappears. He probably heads off to the Sahara Desert or something, so he can blow up sand dunes. 

 

Sammy is more than concerned about the way Dean’s wings haven’t stopped posturing ever since he was forced to agree to go along with this stupid-ass charade. The massive things are spread out, arched, and if it’s possible for wings alone to look pissed, then Dean’s are the definition of murderous. 

 

The problem with having someone around who can sense the emotions emanating from every soul is that all they do is worry, so with Sammy reeking of nerves, and the two chuckleheads in front of them play-acting they’re _them_ , _Dean and Sam_ , Dean is one foot-slip away from teetering over the edge of the abyss. 

 

“Dean,” Sam whispers to him, low enough that _Sam 2.0_ and _Dean 2.0_ up there can’t hear. “Look, it’s just pretend. They’re not hurting anyone. Just...calm down.”

 

Dean grits his teeth. “ _Don’t_ tell me to calm down.” By this point, telling him to calm down is just adding more fuel to the fire. 

 

Then _Sam 2.0_ starts whining like a bitch, but in the most over-exaggerated, dramatic way possible, and he can see the way Sammy’s eyes pinch and his eyebrows twitch. Sam clenches his fist and the scent of worry rapidly darkens to that feeling of an approaching storm. The hair on Dean’s arms rises, a sharp prickling sensation rushing up the limb nearest his brother. 

 

Yeah. He’s not the only one who wants to shoot some idjits.

 

“Alright, you know what? That’s it. _That. Is. It._ ”

 

_Dean 2.0_ turns around and asks in a scratchy voice, “What’s wrong, Bobby?”

 

Dean breaths in through his nose, but his wings are connected straight to the state of his soul...and his soul right now is beyond ticked. They seem to stretch, loom, growing bigger and brighter and fairly crackle with Grace-energy. Sam stumbles a few steps back to avoid the sparks. It’s not visible to Chuckles One and Two, but the effect it has on the environment--

 

The wind picks up, just like an angry ghost, and all that energy in the air forces a rumble of thunder from above. Leaves are ripped right off their branches and blow across the path in a violent swirl. The two idiots glance around with surprise, but there’s no fear. No realization that they’ve pissed off something powerful. 

 

_Someone_ , Dean corrects himself. Dean Winchester is _not_ a some _thing_. He’s a...Dean. A Dean with wings. And Grace. And thunder-inducing rage. 

 

Right. 

 

“Whoa, Sammy, d’ya feel that. I think the ghost is on to us,” says the most annoying of the two freaks. Mostly because he’s trying to act like _Dean,_ and that is just not fucking on. 

 

“Ghost!” Dean - the _real_ one, thanks - explodes. “You think this is the _ghost?_ ” 

 

Fake-him drops the act for about two seconds to be sassy. “Uh, isn’t this all _your_ special effects?”

 

“Special effects,” Dean repeats. “Oh, that’s right, you think this is a _game_. Well, listen up, chuckles, this isn’t a game. You’re not Dean. And you! You’re not Sam. I am _not_ Bobby. And if you wanna win your stupid _game_ so badly, I hope you’re prepared to get your head bashed in by a murderous spirit, because this? This is _real_.”

 

The idiots exchange glances. “Uhhh...oh- _kay_.”

 

“Um. He, uh, he takes the story really seriously,” Sam offers in an attempt to smooth things over. 

 

Dean’s wing snaps out and smacks the overgrown idiot right on the head. Sam nearly crashes straight into fake-himself, and his hand shoots up to the back of his head. “Dude!”

 

Dean shoulders their grave-digging bag more firmly and stalks past. 

 

“What just happened?” idiot one asks idiot two.

 

They make it the rest of the way to the graveyard with little incident. Mostly because the idiots have decided to be quiet and Dean’s getting into the groove of the hunt. Right now nothing matters but digging up the bones, salting them, and burning them so this murderous, child-killing bitch goes up in flames. 

 

The morons flounder around, and they still think it’s a game. Even when Sam pulls out the shovels and Dean starts digging, they shift from foot to foot nervously, but otherwise go along with it. Dean has issues at first, because his stupid wings keep going through the sides of the grave and it’s freaking him out to see the tips disappear into the tightly packed dirt. He’s immensely grateful that worms and bugs don’t have souls, otherwise it would probably be incredibly uncomfortable. 

 

The salt and burn goes about as well as expected. Naturally, Leticia Gore shows up right after they break open her casket. He hates how the spirits always seem to _know_ the moment you break open the coffin. If Dean could have his way, the spirits wouldn’t notice anything until they were already going up in flames, and by then it would be too late. 

 

Since Sammy’s a little busy getting smashed into gravestones, Dean hurries it up. Then Leticia goes for the idiot duo and he can’t help but pause in the middle of pouring the kerosene just to stop and watch them realize that yes, this _is_ real and yes, that is a _real ghost_ with its hands shoved into their chests. 

 

It’s more satisfying than it should be, considering these idiots, as freaking annoying as they are, probably don’t deserve to have their hearts ripped out by a vengeful ghost. So he lights the bitch up and she screams her last defiance to the night. Dumb and Dumber collapse against one another, panting, eyes wide with horror. Dean can feel their fear like ice down his back and over the joints of his wings. They shake themselves out with a heavy shiver and the icy feeling slews off him like rain on a windshield. Now if only he could figure out how to do that on purpose and he’d be awesome.

 

Sammy pulls himself to his feet with a groan and dislodges dirt from his hair. He directs a taste of concern towards the shaken morons by the gate, so Dean decides its time to slam some reality into their faces. “That real enough for you?”

 

There’s a heavy dose of awkward silence after that. 

 

Instead of cutting out of there on the sly, Dean and Sam trail the two knuckleheads back up to the hotel. The two convention goers head straight for the bar as soon as they get back inside and Dean can’t help feeling a tinge of approval. So, they may be annoying as fuck, and Dean may want to shoot one in the foot, _just_ _because_ , but at least they’re taking this like men. 

 

Sam reads the look on his face just as Dean does his, and they’re off for the bar in tandem. Sammy pulls a twenty from his wallet and Dean plucks it from his hand to slap down on the counter between the two rookies. Nerds or not, Dean remembers _his_ first encounter with a ghost and he only regrets he was too young to knock back a shot or two of tequila to take the edge off the shock. 

 

The boys are still trying to put words to their experience. Dean does it for them. “Awful. Right?”

 

They both turn to stare at him. He nudges the bill up the counter and claps the nearest one on the shoulder. With the ghost toasted and him and Sammy about to blow this joint, Dean’s feeling fairly magnanimous. He acknowledges the shell-shocked expressions on their faces, and the emotions rolling off their shoulders. “Exactly. Round’s on us, guys.”

 

Dean’s wings fluff self-importantly as they walk away. Chuck’s on the other side of the room, so they cross over because Dean and Sam always have the last word. Feeling even better - the wings are fine, he’s fine, and there’s one less murderous ghost in the world - he’s all set to swagger out of there when he discovers the doors are locked. Supernaturally locked. 

 

They’re locked in. There’s no way out. They already ganked the ghost bitch, which means…

 

All those zen-like feelings burn up in a blaze of irritation. Dean turns away from trying to pry open the window next to the doors. “No,” he states, jaw clenched. “ _Hell_ no. I’ve about _had it_ with this place, Sammy!”

 

“Dean, there must be another ghost.” Sammy, Captain Obvious. 

 

“Awesome.”

 

“We need to get out.”

 

“Well _that’s_ not happening any time soon,” Dean snaps. 

 

Sammy’s just _looking_ at him though, all puppy eyes and...oh, _no_ , he knows that look. That’s Sammy’s ‘I’ve got a stupid plan you’re gunna hate’ look. “Dean…”

 

“What!”

 

“Dean, use your wings.”

 

Dean glances over his shoulder reflexively. “What?” The wings flex and shimmer. 

 

“Use your wings!” Sammy repeats with peppermint sparks of excitement. He waves his hand towards the doors. “You did it earlier, just...poof your way out and…”

 

“And then what?” Dean snarks. “Burn the whole graveyard?”

 

Sammy’s face falls a little, the eagerness drains out of him in a tangible flood. Dean shoves one hand into his jacket pocket. He hates that disappointed face. It’s the face Sammy used to use on Dean all the time when he was younger, to get Dean to do things he really wanted to do, even when Dad had already said _no_.

 

Regardless of everything, Dean doesn’t want to _use_ the dumb wings. He doesn’t want to...to be able to poof in and out of wherever he wants because that’s what demons and angels do, not hunters. Not Dean. Why can’t Sam understand that these wings aren’t exactly a _good_ thing? 

 

“The kid!”

 

“What?”

 

“We saw the kid earlier. The one she killed? Her son.”

 

“There were four kids she killed. You wanna burn all four?”

 

Sammy nods. “Leaves little chance of screwing up this time.” He flaps his hands at Dean. “Go on. Do your angel thing and I’ll hold down the fort in here.”

 

Dean opens his mouth to tell Sam to shove it where the sun don’t shine, but they’re interrupted by the shrill sound of a scream. Sam shoves him towards the door. “Dammit, Dean, just figure it out!” Then he charges off like freaking MacGyver. 

 

Dean curses. “Screw you very much, Sammy. Don’t think I won’t put girl’s perfume in your shampoo!” 

 

Unfortunately, Sam’s too far away to hear. And now Dean’s stuck with uncooperative wings and a door that won’t budge. 

 

Well ain’t that just peachy?

 


	17. Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: S05E09 - The Real Ghostbusters

_Flight_

_*_

When Dean thinks back to the day he calls the beginning, the thing that springs immediately to mind is the convention. It was never the morning he woke up with wing-shaped Grace sprouting from his shoulders, or the consequent flailing around trying - and failing - to control them. No, it started the moment Sammy got that text and spiraled out from there. 

 

Dean remembers feeling out of control; inhuman, but then he’d showed up at a convention full of freaky fans and suddenly there were a helleva lot worse things in life than a pair of invisible wings sprouting outta his back. 

 

Half of controlling them is acceptance; he realizes this after the fact. Once he starts thinking of them as _his_ wings and not just _the_ wings they become a part of him just as surely as his fingers and toes. It’s not like he consciously tells his fingers and toes, or his arms and legs, to ‘move right by thirty degrees, then twitch’...he just _does it_. There’s no hesitation, no delay between the desire - the instinct - to do something and his body moving. Because, you know, it’s _his_ body. No one else’s. And they’re his thoughts, feelings and impulses that control what he does. 

 

It all comes to a head that day when Sam runs off to save their fans and leaves him by the hotel doors. Mostly because Dean knows he has no choice now. If he doesn’t do something, whichever ghost kid is keeping them locked in will go after Sam (and the rest of the convention fans) and Dean’s pretty damn sure there’s a string of code in his DNA that specifies that he must - _will_ \- do anything and everything in his power to keep Sam alive and healthy. It’s his _job_. 

 

If that means sucking it up and forgetting just for a minute that it’s just not _right_ for him to haveGrace-wings sticking outta his back, then that’s what he’s gonna do. If it means standing there and actively, truly _trying_ to use them…

 

Of course, this is after he’s bruised half his side ramming into the door, trying to break it down. If it weren’t for the majority of people listening to Chuck’s babbling inside the main auditorium, and the fact that Sam’s trying to get every last person inside so he can salt down the doors and keep them safe, he’s sure he’d have some concerned bystanders asking him if he needed to see a doctor. Likely the psychiatric kind. 

 

Instead, he gets Chucklehead One and Chucklehead Two slipping past Sam and approaching with looks of equal concern and fear on their faces. 

 

“Um...what’s going on?” asks the one dressed like Dean.

 

Dean rubs his tender shoulder and lets out a sigh. Now’s not the time for grudges...or for pussyfooting around. “Looks like it wasn’t just Leticia Gore killing people. We’ve got the kids to salt and burn too, now, but they’ve locked the place down.”

 

Sam comes skidding towards the doors. “Dude, I’ve got them all inside. Chuck’s gonna keep ‘em occupied, but it won’t last forever. All it takes is one idiot breaking that salt line.” He barely even acknowledges the Sam and Dean twins. “Look, Dean, I saw the kid from earlier and he said it _wasn’t_ Leticia who scalped him.”

 

This sparks a very uncomfortable idea in Dean’s head. “You don’t think it was…?”

 

Sam is grimmer than a damn reaper. “Yeah. Let’s say the other three orphans were playing cowboys and Indians-”

 

“LARPing-” Dean and the other two all try to say at the same time. Dean glares them down and they cower.

 

“Whatever,” Sam interjects quickly, glancing over his shoulder in worry. The coast is clear so far, but Dean doesn’t know how long they have before the ghost kids get bold. “Anyway, let’s say they scalped Leticia’s son and killed him…”

 

“Mom catches ‘em in the act, flips out, slices ‘em and dices herself,” Dean finishes, the picture coming together in his head ever so neatly. There’s always a motive.  

 

Chuckles One and Two look horrified. “You mean there’s three evil ghost children out there?” whimpers the Sam-twin. 

 

“And we just got rid of the one thing keeping them under control,” Dean adds in disgust. The Winchester Luck strikes again.

 

Sammy rolls his shoulders in irritation. Dean knows that move. That’s the pre-Grace-wings shoulder twitch of uncomfortable situations. Fantastic. “Smooth move on our part,” Sam mutters, once more glancing around with trepidation. 

 

“So what do we do?” Dean’s twin breathes. 

 

“We?” Dean parrots. “ _We_ don’t do anything. You two get in that room and keep anyone from crossing the salt line,” he jerks his thumb at Sam. “Me an’ Sammy here go toast these little shits.”

 

“Dean.” Sam runs a hand over his hair. “I’ve gotta stay here and keep the ghosts occupied. But...there’s three graves to dig up. You’re going to need help.”

 

Dean stares. “No. No way.” He makes a broad gesture at their twins. “These idiots here think this is all fun and games-”

 

“No, we don’t,” the Sam-twin cuts him off. 

 

“Yeah, we get it. We’re not nuts. We’re freakin’ terrified,” the him-twin adds. He’s not lying. He _is_ terrified - an annoying, icy finger brushing over Dean’s arms and wings. The feathers keep shuffling and shivering and shaking it off, but it just comes back over and over again. 

 

“Right,” continues the Sam-twin. “But all these people are in serious trouble, so we gotta do something.” 

 

Dean stares at them. He can taste that edge of determination, as icy-cold as it is. It’s wrapped in fear and nerves, but at the core it’s strong. These...nerds...really do want to try to do what’s right. Well, ain’t that a curveball? Dean looks at Sam, who shrugs. “Why?” he asks them. He...needs to know. Most people would run screaming from this kind of danger. 

 

Their answer totally steamrolls Dean. “Because. That’s what Sam and Dean would do.”

 

Sam recovers first, though Dean feels the flush of self-appreciation hanging around him like a light cologne. Awesome, feed the gigantor’s ego. His brother starts barking orders, telling them what they need to do. Dean’s still letting the words roam round and round his head, like a record on repeat. He’s never thought of himself as a role-model - someone to look up to. He’s loud and crass and drinks too much. He watches way too much porn and picks up girls at every rest stop just because he’s a handsome devil and can get away with it. He hustles pool, steals people’s money, and has committed more federal crimes than half the criminals locked away in jail. And yet…

 

_That’s what Sam and Dean would do._

 

Just like that. Because that’s what he and Sammy would do, two completely green, terrified out of their minds nerds are willing to risk life and limb to help people they barely know. 

 

Dean can’t really say no now, can he?

 

Sammy grabs his attention one last time. “Dean, I think I’ve got a plan to distract them, but you’re going to have to hurry. You gotta zap you and these guys to the cemetery and dig up those graves as fast as you can.”

 

Dean’s wings flutter, the feathers stretching and twitching. “Sam, I can’t…”

 

“No,” Sam cuts him off, firm. “You can. You _can_ do this. Even Cas can do it and he’s low on juice. You _can_ do this, Dean, you just gotta stop being afraid of them.” And then before Dean can stop him, he’s reaching out and running a hand straight down three large primary feathers. The feel of Sam’s hand on the...the part of him that shouldn’t exist, that hadn’t existed until a day ago...it’s like someone reaching inside of him and running a finger over his kidney or his spleen. The wing jerks back and coils close to his body, protective. “They’re part of you now,” Sam states flatly. “Whether you like it or not. There’s no going back. So take what you’ve got and do some good with it.”

 

Dean remembers this argument. This is the demon blood argument all over again. Except...this time Sammy’s right, goddamn him. Dean can’t just _ignore_ this. He can’t hope the wings will go away. He can’t not use them, either, because they seem to do things all on their own _anyway_. So...he needs to control them...before people get hurt. 

 

“Good luck.” 

 

The rookie dressed like him swings his head from Sam’s retreating back to Dean’s face. “Okay, you guys are _really_ into this Sam and Dean thing, but I don’t remember that being in the books.”

 

“Because this is real, not one of Chuck’s piss-poor attempts at fiction. Now shut up and hold out your hands.”

 

Dean can’t believe he’s going to try this. First of all, holding hands with two guys in a circle is about as gay as it gets. Second, he doesn’t know where on earth to start with this whole instant-transportation thing. He’s seen Cas do it enough times to know it involves his wings. Cas had once described it to him as flying. Like...he reaches out with his Grace and, what? Folds space around him like a black hole? Or just flies at super-sonic speeds? Dean has no idea of the mechanics of it all, but he knows he’s capable of it. He did it earlier. 

 

He just needs to want it badly enough. 

 

He grips the two sweaty hands tightly in his own and shuts his eyes. He drowns out the sound of their breathing and the faint vibration of Chuck’s voice from the auditorium. He tries to feel the wings on his back. Focuses on the warmth at his shoulder blades and the buzzing echo of Sam’s touch on his feathers, defining the edges of their existence. 

 

_Okay, wings. You’re mine. My wings. My Grace. So you gotta do what I say. I need to get to the graveyard and I need these two chuckleheads to come with me._

 

Talking to his limbs is two fries short of a happy meal kind of crazy, but he does it anyway. He pictures every inch of that dark graveyard in his head, down to the last detail he can remember - which is pretty much picture perfect with his new photographic memory. He imagines the wings flexing, reaching out to grab air, to grab reality and _propel_ him through space. He imagines them flapping and taking off, feet leaving the ground and coming back down on the damp, dark earth of the cemetery. He rolls his shoulders, fishing for a response, thinks of flying, and tries to pretend he’s already there. He thinks about how badly he needs to be there. He tells himself he _is_ there. How he can smell the dirt and the trees and the faint odor of burnt ashes and warped bones. His grip around the hands in his is still firm. 

 

He’s _there_. They’re _there._ His wings are reaching out, flapping, _pulling_... There’s a feeling of vertigo, like he loses all sense of gravity for a fraction of a second and it makes his ears pop. The ground under his feet wavers and sinks. He feels himself lean forward, but the wings catch him, snapping his shoulders back. _His_ wings. His wings catch him. The hands in his, however, jerk away and Dean finally opens his eyes. 

 

They’re there. In the graveyard. He did it. 

 

“Holy-” cries one of the guys. “How did you-”

 

“Explain later, dig now,” Dean snaps quickly, already slinging the equipment bag off his shoulder. “Come on, pick a grave and get to it.” 

 

Fortunately, he and Sammy always have at least three shovels. Usually just in case one shovel breaks or goes walkabout and they need another on short notice. He breezes past the shell-shocked nerds, pulling his wings in as he goes so they settle around his shoulders like a warm blanket. He doesn’t think about it, he just does it. Like raising his arm or placing one foot in front of the other, it just happens. 

 

He’ll think about it later. He finds the graves next to Leticia’s and throws each of the guys a shovel. “Start digging!”

 

Dean can only think about Sam inside the hotel with three murderous ghost children and no weapons. _Dean_ should be the one inside right now. At least he has the protection of his Grace! Sammy’s still developing, he has nothing but his wit and whatever iron he can scrounge up. 

 

He digs faster and harder than he ever has before. He’s calling on strength he never knew he had. It’s probably angelic, but frankly, Dean no longer cares. Hell, he’ll take any advantage he can get right now.

 

He’s done with his grave in record time and smashes the tiny coffin open with far more aggression than is warranted. His wings seem to flare brighter in his vision, and his Grace heats up, almost fizzing. His wings flap once and he springs up. No matter that they’re not made out of bone and flesh, they pull him out of the grave in a single, smooth leap. 

 

The salt is in the bag. It takes him two seconds to salt the little demonspawn, and he’s never wanted anything to burn so much in his life. His Grace knows exactly what to do. Before he can reach for the kerosene and lighter, a strange current travels from his shoulders, tugs through and out of his chest and superheats the air molecules around the remains. The bones burst into flames brighter and higher than kerosene could ever manage. They appear to melt and warp under its heat. 

 

Well. That’s handy. He draws in a deep breath and lets it out steadily. Awesome. That’s how he’s going to think of this. No more worries about fumbling lighters, running out of matches or kerosene. Maybe he’ll add a little finger snapping to that, for showmanship. 

 

The two nerds are still digging, huffing and puffing away, but they’re not stopping and while neither of them has the training or the strength for this, they don’t give up. Determination - resolution - saturates the air around them like a heavy musk. Dean picks up his shovel and walks over to the nearest grave. “Get the salt,” he orders and holds out a hand. “Here.”

 

The guy’s not exactly light - in fact, he’s gotta weigh several hundred pounds at least - but Dean’s wings are pulling half the weight and he hauls the guy out of the squarish hole like he’s on steroids. Grace-steroids, clearly. “Salt,” he reminds the wide-eyed, dumbstruck man. 

 

He’s back with the salt before Dean’s quite finished, but soon enough he’s smashing open the coffin and flaps his way out faster this time. It’s getting a lot easier the more he just...gives in and lets his body do what it wants - like instinct. He’ll ponder the implications of that later too. 

 

“Light that bitch up.” And then he’s off to check the last grave. 

 

Two minutes later there’s a third burning skeleton. All three stand in a row to watch. Dean’s feeling pretty relieved now that Sam’s only danger is the overly amorous advances of the _lovely_ Becky, but the tension hasn’t left either of the men to his left. 

 

“What…” Dean’s fake-twin licks his lips and coughs once, clearing his throat. “What are...you? _Who_ are you?”

 

Dean glances down at his hand. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the not-there-light of his wings. He can feel his Grace radiating out of his back. It’s there forever more. He’s...accepted that. “Are you sure you really want to know?” he asks instead. Knowledge cannot be unlearnt, after all. 

 

The two guys exchange glances. Fake-Sam nods at Fake-him. Fake-him takes another deep breath and squares his shoulders. The fresh scent of determination is back. “I think we deserve to know, after all that.”

 

Dean turns to them both and nods. “Yeah, you have. You helped save our bacon, so...fair’s fair. I’m Dean Winchester and I’m a Nephil-” He nearly says Nephilim, but he can hear Sammy’s geeky voice correcting him in his own head and halts himself. 

 

They exchange more looks. “Dean...Winchester?” Fake-Sam repeats skeptically. 

 

“He’s just a made-up character in Edlund’s books…” Fake-him trails off. 

 

Dean holds up a finger. “First off all, it’s Chuck. Carver Edlund’s a pen name. Second, Chuck’s a Prophet of the Lord, which means he’s like the guy who wrote the Bible. Ergo, I’m real. Sam’s real. Every damn thing in those books is real.” He points at himself again. “Me, Dean. You, _not_ _me._ ”

 

“Um. I’m, uh, Damien,” Fake-him stutters. “This is Barnes.”

 

Dean merely holds out a hand. “Dean Winchester.”

 

Damien and Barnes look at his hand like they’re about to touch a sacred object. Slowly, so slowly Dean feels innately uncomfortable - like his hand is being...violated or something - they shake it. Pulling it back quickly, he clears his throat. “Right, so…”

 

“What’s, um, what’s a Nefil?”

 

“Nephil. Plural, Nephilim-”

 

“Wait, no way!” Barnes exclaims. “Not a Fallen Angel?”

 

Dean snorts. “No, that was our mother. We think. Me and Sam are half-angel, I guess.” 

 

“Angels are _real?”_ Damien babbles. 

 

“Yes. And they’re mostly dicks. Except Cas. Cas is awesome. He actually gives a shit about humanity, unlike the rest of those featherbrained douchebags.” 

 

“Cas…?”

 

“Castiel. Angel of Thursday, or something.” And that’s about all Dean’s prepared to say on the matter. 

 

But it gets him thinking again. About Cas. And angels. And Nephilim. He and Sam are gonna have to work something out about that eventually. Figure out a game plan. 

 

He looks down at his fingers again and wiggles them. He’s got the mojo now. Maybe if he and Sammy practice, they can take the Devil by surprise and with Cas’s help and some angel blades…

 

Hey, it just might be possible. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait, but...this was a turning point chapter for Dean. Still not totally satisfied with it. Thoughts?


	18. Tricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: Post-S05E09 (The Real Ghostbusters)

_Tricks_

_*_

The convention is the beginning of the end. As they leave, Becky proves to be more than just the most annoying fan on earth, so maybe there’s some merit in fanatic obsession and the fact that she practically has every last detail of their lives memorized. They now have the location of the Colt, Dean is juiced up on Grace, Sam’s getting there...and then Gabriel pops into the car on the way to Bobby’s and nearly runs them off the road. 

 

They had a plan. Drop Sam off with Bobby so he can sprout feathers in a safe place, pick up Jo and Ellen to help coerce the Colt out of that crossroads demon bastard Crowley, then find the Devil and go in all guns a-blazin’. 

 

And then Gabriel the goddamned Archangel pops into the back seat. 

 

“Sweet Jesus - Fuck!” Dean exclaims, car skidding over gravel and rock on the side of the road before he can jerk it back into a straight line. Good thing there’s no one else on this lonely stretch of forgotten highway. “Gabriel!”

 

“Hiya, boys!” the Trickster chirps, sprawled out sideways along the length of the Impala’s backseat. Dean’s surprised to note he still can’t see the guy’s wings. He’s just that good at hiding his angelic presence. Even Cas hasn’t been able to figure that one out. Even if he manages to hide the wings, he’s still got an angelic glow if Dean squints. 

 

Sammy twists around in the front seat to demand, “How did you find us?”

 

Gabriel merely smirks, taps the side of his nose, and snaps a tub of Red Vines into existence. “Want one?” he offers innocently. 

 

“No!” Dean snaps, the heat of his glare lessened by the fact that he has to keep his eyes on the road. “Now how the hell did you find us?”

 

Gabriel tsks and rips into a Red Vine. “Keep your feathers on, chickadee. You’re still hidden from angelic tracking. I just happen to have _other_ means.” 

 

Dean’s wings fluff in indignation from the insult, though it’s hard to tell with them mostly hidden inside the Impala’s upholstery. 

 

“D’aww,” Gabriel coos. “Look at you, all puffed up! Man, it’s been a while since I was able to tease the ickle fledglings.”

 

Dean’s very close to slamming on the breaks and seeing how well he fares against an ex-Archangel. 

 

Fortunately, he’s not very good at keeping his emotions from radiating all over the place yet, so Sam gets a face full of Dean’s irritation and pulls out the diplomatic sweet talk. “Okay, Gabriel. There’s a reason you popped into our car, what is it?”

 

Gabriel seems content to munch on a few more Red Vines before he gets around to actually answering. Sam gives up and turns back around during the prolonged silence. Dean’s keeping every ounce of attention on the road, because otherwise he’ll only be able to focus on the sound of Gabriel’s smacking lips and rude chewing noises. 

 

Dean starts to ponder the Colt situation again. Cas is still tracking down the location of Crowley, but once they have a lock on the son of a bitch, they’re gonna need a _lot of_ salt and holy water. 

 

“It won’t work you know,” Gabriel suddenly says. He’s pulled himself upright so he’s lounging in the middle of the seats, arms spread wide and draped. His candy’s gone, vanished like it was never there in the first place. The lack of snacks and the expression on his face conveys just how serious he’s being. 

 

This time Dean actually does pull the car over to the side of the road. He twists around, one wing flapping out of the Impala’s driver-side window and the other nearly smacking Sammy in the face. Stupid things.

 

“Dude,” Sam complains, batting it away. 

 

Gabriel tries to keep the serious facade up, but his eyes are twinkling too much. 

 

“What do you mean?” Dean barks, because he knows what he was thinking in his head two seconds ago and it’s suspicious how well Gabriel coordinated his remark. 

 

Gabriel taps his ears. “I hear things, boys. Things like Castiel making discreet enquiries about the demon Crowley. I also know what the demon Crowley has in its possession. It. Won’t. Work.”

 

Sam is visibly disturbed. “Why are you telling us this?”

 

Gabriel’s lips twist. “Why? Because as much as you mooks annoy me, I’d rather not see the newest little members of my extended family run off and get themselves blown up.” He leans forward, eyes hard. “And maybe I’ve done some thinking. And maybe I’ve decided I _like_ this world just the way it is.” He flings a hand towards the back window. “Humans are _fun._ They’re all endless centuries of entertainment waiting to happen. Michael and Lucifer are total killjoys. They’d destroy half the world to turn it into either an endless safety-first, kiddie park of _boredom_ or a complete demonic wasteland of _scum._ ” 

 

Dean’s eyebrow goes up, because, seriously? That’s Gabriel’s only reason? He’d be _bored_ in Paradise? Post-apocalyptic zombieland he can understand, but...he can’t even _pretend_ he’s doing it for humanity?   
  
Well, at least it _seems_ honest.

 

“And fine, I’d rather not watch my two older brothers kill each other. I...may know of another way. I’ll have to get back to you on the deets, if you idiots can keep yourselves alive long enough.” 

 

This is probably the longest time Gabriel’s managed to talk without Dean wanting to shove a stake up his ass.  

 

“O-kay…” Sam urges him to continue. 

 

“So I’m telling you, the Colt? Won’t kill Lucy. It’ll just piss him off.” Gabriel suddenly snaps another bowl into his lap, this time caramel corn. Dean is beginning to suspect it’s a defense mechanism. 

 

Crunching through a mouthful of caramel and popcorn, the archangel grunts, “If I were you two knuckleheads, I’d focus on mastering what Grace-abilities you’ve got and making sure Lucy doesn’t catch wind of it until it’s too late. The more surprises you have up your sleeves, the better when it’s time.”

 

“Time?” Dean repeats with narrowed eyes. 

 

“Like I said, I’ll get back to you on that.” He licks each finger in an obscene gesture and Dean’s fingers dig into the side of his seat in despair over the sticky offense being committed in his Baby. “So, are you boys gonna trust me?”

 

Sam and Dean exchange looks. Sammy does his constipated thinking face. “You killed Dean over and over again and trapped us in a t.v. world.” 

 

“Yes, and all to teach you lessons you clearly refuse to retain, Sam-a-lam.”

 

“So what, we’re just expected to take you on your word alone?” Dean quirks an eyebrow. “How do we know you’re not just trying to keep us from killing your precious brother?”

 

Gabriel opens his eyes wide in comic surprise. “Lucifer? You think I’d chose him over the whole world?”

 

_“YES,”_ Sam and Dean exclaim at the same time.

 

Gabriel holds up his hands in a surrendering gesture, the bowl of caramel-covered popcorn nearly spilling from his lap. Dean makes an aborted noise of protest. “Ouch. Boys, boys, I’m _hurt._ Here’s your Uncle Gabriel trying to make things aaaaalll better and you don’t trust me?”

 

_Uncle Gabriel,_ Dean mouths to himself incredulously. Sam coughs in the back of his throat. “Umm.”

 

Gabriel shakes his head mournfully. “Where’s the family trust? I mean, really.”

 

Dean’s wings flare a little to accompany his dry observation. “You’re a _trickster_.”

 

The Trickster in question glances between them, pouting. Then he offers his horrible bucket of caramel corn. Dean’s not that stupid. He leans one shoulder against the side of his seat so he can cross his arms. “Give us a damn good reason.”

 

Gabriel pops another handful of popcorn into his mouth. “I gave you all my reasons. Look, if you want to go ahead on a suicide mission, be my guest. If you want to trust me and _wait,_ then I can guarantee it’ll go down a lot differently. _My way,_ no one dies. Your way, you all die. Michael and Lucifer’s way, one of them dies and half the world is destroyed. Now which one of those options do you little chickpeas prefer?”

 

Dean takes it back. He really, really wants to stab this guy with something sharp. Chickpeas? Really? 

 

“We’ll take your advice under consideration,” says Sam finally, voice strained. The sharp heat of irritation prickles at Dean’s skin, like a rash.

 

Gabriel knows this is the best he’s gonna get out of them, so he vanishes the bowl of popcorn and dusts off his hands. “Alright-y then! Now don’t be strangers, my young peepers! If you’re stuck in a tight spot, go ahead and call on Uncle Gabriel. If I’m bored enough, I might decide to rescue your dumb asses. Ciao.” 

 

He vanishes just as suddenly as he left and Dean _still_ doesn’t see a hint of Grace. The guy is _good_. Annoying, but good. Powerful. 

 

Sam turns to him. “I dunno, Dean. He’s powerful, and…”

 

But he called Dean a peeper, a chickpea, a mook and a fledgling. “ _Hell_ no.”

 

And they don’t talk about it for the rest of the ride back to Bobby’s. 

 


	19. Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: S05E10 - Abandon All Hope...

_Crossroads_

_*_

Crowley is a crossroads demon. He’s also an ugly sunnavabitch. He calls himself the King of the Crossroads, and Dean can believe it. He’s definitely big enough and ugly enough. 

 

The scent of rot is thick and heavy in the air. Dean sees the oily, dark slide of his demonic soul slither over the skin of his poor, dead meatsuit and he’s never been more repulsed to be standing meters away from a demon he can’t scour from existence.

 

It’s the first time Dean’s properly stood before a demon since his wings fully manifested, so he’s seeing this twisted remnant of humanity in all its fully evil glory. If this is how Castiel feels every time they run into demons, color him impressed by the guy’s self-control. Dean would have gone full on Angel-terminator on their asses within seconds. There’s a burning at his shoulder blades that demands he do so that just won’t go away.

 

For his part, Crowley is smarmy, self-absorbed, and just as much a dick as any angel, right up until the point where he senses something about Dean is different. He cocks his head, oily black soul twisting and roiling inside his meatsuit in confusion. Then he starts to laugh. The limey bastard doubles over his desk and practically cracks a rib laughing.

 

Since Crowley’s currently the one holding all the cards, Dean waits impatiently, while Ellen levels the bastard with one of her _looks_. The irritated ruffling of his feathers betrays his annoyance and even though Dean’s almost positive the demon scum can’t actually _see_ his Grace, Crowley looks up immediately and starts wiping the tears out of his eyes. 

 

“You’ll have to excuse me,” he smirks, “but this is too good. Tell me, Winchester, are you Nephil or Fallen?” He holds up a hand. “No, wait, don’t tell me, I can guess. I’m going with Nephil, seeing as how not only am I still alive, but you’re clearly here to bargain. Naturally, I assume that makes Sam Nephil as well?” Apparently he doesn’t need any real confirmation of this, or perhaps Dean’s shoulder twitch says it all. His smirk widens. “Oh, this is precious. Doesn’t this just put a great big monkey wrench right smack dab in the middle of Lucifer’s plans? Now he has no True Vessel. _Daddy_ broke out of Hell, but he’s got no Vessel! Neither of them do!” At Dean’s darkening look he holds out the Colt. “Oh, but you came here for this, hoping to use it on the Devil, right? Well, I really would prefer to see him gone for good, so I’m still going to hand it over on the provision that you actually do what you say you’ll do and _kill him_ for good. Do we have an accord, Nephil?” 

 

Dean comes away from the experience one Colt richer and feeling like he’s been weirdly perved on. Crowley had wanted to ‘seal the deal’ with a kiss, though Dean suspects mostly for shits and giggles and less for legitimacy. Any demon with any ounce of intelligence already knows the Winchester brothers want the Devil dead more than anything else, so Crowley already has that in the bag. It’s obvious the little bastard’s only looking out for number one, but so long as that happens to coincide with Dean and Sam’s plans, he’ll let it go...for now. 

 

He vows to come back some day and finish the weasel off, one way or another. 

 

On the drive back, both Ellen and Jo sit quietly in shock, and Dean’s brow is furrowed in deep thought. He steers the car on autopilot and the only thing that keeps them from crashing is the lack of traffic on the midwestern back roads. 

 

Number one worry, how could Crowley tell? Was it really that obvious that Dean’s a Nephil? He’d rather prefer not to have a bunch of hunters start putting together clues and decide that he’s a threat that needs taking out. This starts him wondering whether he’s now susceptible to angelic wards or if there’s some kind of monster-killing solution that would do him in, like a silver bullet or a stake to the heart. For that matter, is he now regular-bullet proof? Death proof? Can he heal up like Cas can, or will he just be a little hardier, a little tougher? 

 

Does he want to be?

 

His mortality was what made him _Dean_. He was Dean Winchester, hunter, human...except that he was never human. Not really. Only ever half. His mother (maybe) had protected him by hiding away that second half - the angelic half. He supposes if he has to be half of anything, angel is a hellava lot better than demon or any other monster. Angels aren’t even exactly monsters - not in the same sense of the rest of the fuglies out there. Being extra-dimensional beings of God’s Grace kind of puts them way up high on the inhuman totem pole. Up there with gods and shit. And even if most of them are dicks, at least some of them aren’t too bad. Like Cas. And whoever their angel parent was. 

 

He still can’t help but wonder who she (he?) was. She had to have been an awesome angel, though, just like Cas. And she knew what she was doing when she decided to fuck with the Apocalypse. Whether she did it to save humanity, because she got sick of all her dick brothers and sisters fucking up Heaven, or because of some weird God-sanctioned plan, he doesn’t know. He suspects they’ll never know. 

 

He wonders if Gabriel has any idea. The guy’s an archangel. One of the big ones. Saint Gabriel and all that pizzazz. He still doesn’t know whether or not to trust that annoying dick, but he has the Colt now, so maybe he’ll point that thing at _Uncle_ Gabriel and see whether he starts sweating. It’s as good a plan as any. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam ignore Gabriel's advice, and now Jo and Ellen know. Oh, and Crowley. Whoops.


	20. Responsibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: S05E10 - Abandon All Hope...

_Responsibility_

_*_

Dean knows Sam like the back of his hand. He practically raised the kid - changed countless dirty diapers, fed him, clothed him, taught him how to read and count. Sam’s not _just_ his little brother - he’s Dean’s Responsibility (capital R and everything). If there was one thing in life that he ever did right, it was keeping that little bitch alive long enough for him to learn how to take care of himself. Even then, Dean’s still been watching his back and sacrificing every damn thing he owns, including his soul, for the ungrateful little spawn. 

 

But he’s _Dean’s_ ungrateful spawn, goddamnit. And when Sam is hurt or upset, it never takes long before he cracks. The kid just holds too many pieces of his heart. Sometimes Dean thinks he’s a colossal idiot - kind of like a masochist who keeps coming back for more shit that’s gonna hurt. Sam’s made one stupid-ass decision after another and Dean just keeps mopping up his mistakes - he can’t help it. It’s _Sam._ He’d break Heaven and Hell itself to keep the dumb Sasquatch alive and happy. 

 

So, he figured, when Sammy said he wanted to be a Nephil; when the great moose said he’d rather be half-angel than have to worry about when the demon blood addiction was going to rear its ugly head again or when Lucifer was going to get ugly with the persuasion...Dean caved. Sammy was all righteous and logical and convincing and, faced with the reality of it, Dean couldn’t say no. Because, he’d have been a damn hypocrite, for one, seeing how he was already well on his way to being full on angel-fied. And because Sam gave him those goddamn stupid puppy dog eyes. 

 

So he told Sammy _fine_ , _do what you want_ and Sam found an unbinding ritual and they did it and that was that. It was done. No going back. Dean was honestly surprised it went so well. No muck ups; just calm acceptance and Sammy almost acting like he was _excited_ for it. 

 

He kept preaching about how he was fine with it and how Dean should be too. How it wouldn’t be fair to deny their heritage like that, and how there was nothing wrong with being part-angel. Or having hulking, great, useless Grace-wings which never do what he tells them to. That Dean needed to calm down and just accept what he was - that it didn’t make him a monster, and that it hadn’t changed who he was, because he’s _always_ been this way, it was just hidden before. 

 

Dean wasn’t - still isn’t - entirely convinced about that one (being hidden and being _bound_ were two very different things), but Sammy is. He’s practically the poster child for ‘Make love, not war’, all hippie acceptance and shit. Dean keeps looking for the used joints his bro’s gotta be smoking, because why else would he be so calm about sprouting goddamn Grace-wings? 

 

Even through developing empathy and the improving senses, Sammy was all fucking butterflies and rainbows. Even when his chest ached and the migraines started to hit, he just said, serenely, “Dean, I expected it wouldn’t be a smooth transition.” Then, finally, when the first dark feather showed up in his bed and he got that weird itch down his back, he was still all accepting and shit. 

 

It’s not until Dean’s back with the Colt, they’re on the verge of hunting down the Devil for good, and Cas announces Sam has maybe a day before the wings are fully developed... that’s when the kid freaks out. 

 

It’s full on ‘oh shit, what have I done’ panic-mode. Dean finds him outside, sitting on one of Bobby’s metal deathtraps, an empty bottle of beer next to him and another half-empty in his hand. 

 

“So,” he says; leans against the gutted shell of a car. 

 

Sam wordlessly reaches down and hands him a beer. As his fingers brush Dean’s in the exchange his eyes dart to the ever-present wings hanging loosely from his shoulders. It’s their preferred position, just open enough so they can express their moods - okay, Dean’s constantly changing mood - which is pretty much 24/7. 

 

“Did it hurt?” Sam asks carefully, tearing his eyes away from the wings.  


“Nah. Didn’t even notice till I woke up and they were there. It’s just this sort of...heat, against my back.” Dean takes a pull from his bottle. Clearly Sam’s freaking out and clearly he’s trying to keep it under control. The problem with being empathetic is that no emotions are sacred anymore. Dean’s tongue has been coated in a thin film of sourness since he stepped outside and despite the warm sun, there are pin-pricks of cold running up and down his arms. 

 

The other problem with _Sam_ being empathetic is that Dean is afraid that his little brother will realize that Dean is a bit more nervous about this than he lets on. Dean wasn’t the one who had been the demon blood junkie. Who knows whether it’ll have any more adverse effects?

 

He thinks he’s been doing a pretty good job of hiding it, though. 

 

“Dude, this sucks,” Sam finally groans. 

 

“What? The angel thing or the ganking Lucifer thing?”

 

Sam flicks his finger back and forth between them. “ _This_. Always knowing what you really feel. It’s...I don’t _want_ to know.”

 

Okay, so Dean can get behind that. “Well, what about that dick Gabriel? He seems to have his Grace thing pretty under wraps. Maybe there’s a way of hiding it.”

 

“Yeah, maybe.”

 

There’s an extended length of silence. Dean gets through half his bottle, despite the lingering sourness. Sam opens a third. Dean’s eyebrows go up, but he keeps his trap shut. If Sammy wants to deal with this the good, old-fashioned Winchester way by getting absolutely shit-faced, then who is he to say no? 

 

“Do you feel different? Between then and now?”

 

Dean is beginning to hate this conversation. It’s about ten-times more chick-flicky than he can deal with. Not to mention Sam seems to determined to dig into parts of Dean’s thoughts he’d rather stay good and buried. “I dunno, Sam. Between the stupid powers and the damn wings, it’s a little hard to tell.”

 

Sammy pulls a face at him. “Jeez, Dean. Sorry I asked.” And now there’s indignation on top of the annoying chill of fear, but at least the sourness has evaporated. 

 

Dean runs a hand through his hair and his wings shrug. “Look, man, I dunno whether I’m the same or not. I dunno anything anymore. I’ve got a pair of freakin’ wings stickin’ outta my back, so yeah, I’d say I’m different. Am I still me? I damn well hope so.” He slams back the rest of the beer. “Look, you made the call to do this; I never got the choice. Guess you just had to be like big brother, huh?”

 

Sam jostles him right off his perch in retaliation and he drops the bottle. “Hey!”

 

Sam rolls his eyes and hands him another one. “Dean, I don’t regret it, okay? I’ve thought about it, and angel Grace always trumps Lucifer meatsuit any day. I just-”

 

“You’re scared. I get it.” Dean finishes by popping off the cap of the bottle with a single finger - because hey, he’s strong enough to do that now. 

 

“I’m not _scared_ -”

 

“You are. Dude, you’re growing wings! Look!” His own wings spread and display, glittering translucently against the backdrop of afternoon sun. “That ain’t normal. We’re not normal.”

 

Sammy snorts. “Dean, when have we ever been normal?”

 

Dean’ll give him that one. He nods and shrugs.

 

“I’m just...what if the demon blood’s still there? What if the Grace hasn’t really purged it? Or...worse, what if it, like...clashes and-”

 

“And you go boom?”

 

Sam shoots him one of his bitchiest faces.

 

“I think Cas would have figured out if that was gonna happen, Sam. He would have said something.”

 

“Cas doesn’t know everything.”

 

“But he knows a damn sight more than us.”

 

Sam concedes the point, starts in on his fourth bottle, and they end up staying out there until the sun sets. Sam’s still nervous as hell, it’s kind of hard to mask when every emotion is a neon sign of smells and sensations. Sometimes Dean can use his wings as a shield against the emotional backwash, but it doesn’t always work. Usually it only works with more physical emotions, like anger. Sam’s not angry, though, just having a meltdown. 

 

He’s still having a meltdown when he goes to sleep that night. Well, he sort of doesn’t get a choice. Dean calls Cas in and Cas knocks his brother out cold with two fingers, because as far as Dean’s concerned Sam’s not going to be awake for...whatever this is. 

 

In the end, they all decide to go to bed as well. Cas states he’ll watch over Sam, so Dean can get some sleep (what little of it he finds he needs, these days). 

 

When Dean comes down early the next morning, Sam’s sitting at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee in front of him, and great, big, hulking spans of glittering dark Grace laid out behind him. 

 

 


	21. Fledgling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: S05E10 - Abandon All Hope...

_Fledgling_

_*_

Sam’s wings are bigger than Dean’s, probably nearly twenty feet. And they’re darker too, like the inky, swirling, deep black of space. Dean can’t help but wonder if it’s the influence of demon blood that made them so black, or if there are other factors involved. Hopefully it’s just a superficial color change. 

 

Of course, with about eighteen to twenty feet of Sasquatch feathers laid out across Bobby’s kitchen, the first thing Dean does is wolf-whistle. “Dude. Those are ginormous.” 

 

Sam glares. 

 

Dean’s own wings rustle and fluff and then settle a little as he collapses in his chair. “So,” he states. 

 

Sam’s shoulder twitches, the whole wing flopping a little like a fish out of water, gasping its last breath. A grin spreads across Dean’s face. “Dude, you’re pissed off you can’t control them. Control freak.”

 

Sammy cracks. He jerks himself around, wings picking themselves up in a flurry of sparking Grace, and they sort of do their own thing, imitating the way Sam waves his arms or hands and Dean didn’t think it was possible for wings to be bitchy, but Sam’s are mirroring his bitch-face to perfection. “How the hell did you cope!” Sam aggrieves. “They’re just...there! All over the place! I mean, thank god I don’t feel much different, but now I’ve got these...these… They’re _in the way_ , Dean! And they’re _huge!_ And I keep thinking they’re going to bash into things but they go _through_ them and it’s freaky! How did you do it, man!”

 

Dean lounges there with a smirk on his face, because for once Sammy’s not the smart one, or the capable one. Right now it’s _Dean_ who has the upper hand. Dean’s the one with the experience. For so long Sam’s been all ‘Dean, I’m not a child’ and ‘Dean, I’m an adult, so you can’t tell me what to do’, and he’s tried so hard _not_ to rely on big brother like he used to, but now it’s like they’re kids again, and Sam is going through puberty and Dean’s the one that’s going to help him through it (with copious amounts of teasing, naturally). It’s...well, it makes Dean’s chest feel warm and light. His wings - his _Grace_ \- heats pleasantly with emotion and since Dean still hasn’t _quite_ figured out how to stop projecting that shit all over the place, it fizzles all over his little brother’s wings and they (and Sam) freeze in place. 

 

“Seriously?” says Sam with a scowl. “What’s with the fuzzy love crap?”

 

Normally Dean would flip his brother off, but right now he’s feeling a little indulgent. Later, he’ll regret the chick-flick crap, but… Well, right now he’s going to bask in the sentimentality. Sam’s flailing and sulking is so...pre-psychic Sam, that he’s drowning in nostalgia. Before all the psychic kid and demon crap dragged them under and swallowed them whole, Sam was just the little, annoying, kid brother who was his responsibility. He can’t remember the last time he got to teach Sam the ways of the world (or, in this case, the ways of the Nephil), but he’s going to _enjoy_ this as much as he can. 

 

Mostly because it’s always hilarious watching Sam get frustrated over failing to accomplish something on the first try. Especially when Dean’s going to be running rings around him. 

 

So, Dean shrugs with an unrepentant grin and flicks at Sammy’s hair with a wing tip. “You’re just so _cute_ , Angel-cakes!” 

 

Sammy flinches back and the emotions bouncing off of Dean’s Grace switch from annoyed to mildly horrified. “Oh, hell no! Dean, _no_! And how did you _do_ that? I can’t even lift mine!” He twists his head to glare at the glowing Grace wings of deep-space blackness, but they don’t do much more than twitch pathetically. 

 

“Patience, young Padawan,” Dean nearly cackles. 

 

The air shifts.

 

With all the consideration of an angel - which is to say, absolutely none at all - Gabriel pops into the third seat at the table and they both really should have seen that one coming. 

 

He salutes Dean with a shit-eating grin, the grin only widening when Dean flares his wings in surprise at the sudden intrusion. He hadn’t felt or heard Gabriel at _all!_ “If Sam is the Padawan, then, you, my dear little nephew, are the Knight, and I? I am the _Master_.” He flicks his fingers into the air and a whole chocolate cake pops into being on the kitchen table. “Of course,” Gabriel continues, like he hasn’t just randomly intruded into Bobby Singer’s kitchen and shocked both Winchester brothers into silence, “you’ll never be able to do the amazing things I can, because, me? Archangel.” His thumbs point to his chest proudly, before he flips them around to gesture rudely at Dean and Sam, “You? Nephilim. But what can you do?” He rubs his hands together like a b-movie villain. “Now, my young Padawans, we must meditate!” 

 

“Uh, no,” Dean manages.

 

Gabriel pouts. “What? Really? After everything I’ve done for you, you’re going to deny me this?”

 

Dean narrows his eyes. Sam squints. “Deny you _what_ exactly?”

 

“Teaching fledglings!” Gabriel crows delightedly. “It’s going to be hilarious! And fun!” He starts picking at a hangnail. “Which, you know, may just save your miserable lives, if you shut up, listen, and _learn_ for once.” The lighthearted atmosphere immediately darkens like it’s a living thing folding in on itself. A shadow crosses Gabriel’s face. 

 

Dean and Sam both scowl simultaneously; it’s the Winchester patented defense mechanism. 

 

Gabriel dips a finger into his chocolate covered monstrosity and sucks off the icing carefully. In between licks - which are making Dean wince - he lays out his ultimatum, “So. Here’s the deal. I’ve already been Mr. Nice Guy and given you mooks a heads up on the Lucy situation. Now, I’m thinking you’re probably going to be idiots and try it anyway, so I’ve decided, out of the goodness of my heart, that I’m going to give you an advantage. Maybe at least this way, you two feather-brained _children_ will come out of this alive.” He sucks off another whole finger of icing, but this time the way he does it is somehow threatening. Dean figures only an Archangel could make licking his fingers seem threatening. “See, if you and Sam go into this without any idea of how to keep your presence hidden, your wings out of sight and Grace dampened, then Lucy’s going to know he has no chance of taking Sam here as his vessel, and both of your warranties? Whoosh, out the window exploding Grace-style.” He snaps his fingers and both Dean and Sam flinch, expecting something to happen...but nothing does. Gabriel smirks. “Just like _that_ , you’re not useful to _either_ side anymore and then it’s bye-bye baby bird, got it? So if you’ve got any kind of self-preservation instincts at all - which I already know you don’t, _idiots_ \- you’ll listen to what I have to say and you’ll take it to heart. Capisce?” 

 

So, this time Gabriel’s argument is kind of convincing. Plus, he’s being awfully persistent. 

 

“What do you care if we get ourselves blown up?” Dean prods a little caustically. 

 

Gabriel snorts. “Besides the fact that the Apocalypse centers around you both, vessels or no? If they figure out you can’t be used, they’re not going to just hang up their swords and say ‘oh well, maybe next time!’. Lucifer’s already out, Michael’s raring to go. They’ve come too far. They’ll find a way to have it out, with or without you, just...now that you two ugly ducklings aren’t an option, that kind of derails Fate. And I figure, if you’re already pissing off Fate, why not go the whole nine-yards and _really_ piss her off? But it’s gotta be you boys.” Gabriel points fingers at the both of them accusingly. “One way or another, vessels or not, it’s always been you idiotic Winchester numbskulls. I can help you get Lucy back in the cage, okay? But you’re going to have to be sneaky about it. And you’re going to have to make sure none of the Host find out that their precious vessels are kaput until it’s too late and you’re ready to stuff Luce back inside.”

 

Dean’s at complete attention now, back ramrod straight and wings frozen wide. “Put the Devil _back_ in the cage?” he repeats, voice laden with surprise. If they could just _shove_ the Devil _back_ , that would solve everything. It almost seems too easy. 

 

Sammy’s own surprise is like burst lightbulbs and burnt magnesium. His wings curl and arch, big, black and looming. They remind Dean a little of some kind of black hole - not that he’s ever seen a black hole, but he’s seen some diagrams and his imagination does the rest. 

 

“Really. It’s that easy. Just shove him back in the box and presto - no more Apocalypse?” Sammy snarks. 

 

Gabriel’s moved on from licking icing to forking up mouthfuls full of rich, dark, spongy chocolate. He’s got crumbs around his mouth and a smear of chocolate icing on his chin, but he doesn’t seem bothered, and strangely, he’s no less intimidating for it, either. Probably because Dean knows he could snap his fingers and explode them both like popped balloons if he gets pissed off enough, chocolate smears or no chocolate smears. 

 

“Well,” Gabriel garbles around a mouthful, “it’s not as easy as it sounds, by _far_. And no, I’m not telling you the details yet.” With his free hand he taps his ear and points to the ceiling, the universal sign for ‘angels might be listening’. Dean, Sam, Bobby and Castiel have kind of already warded this place to hell and back, but if Gabriel’s wary of eavesdropping angels, then clearly they missed something. “So this is where the trust portion comes in. But whether or not you decide to trust me on this one, if you get yourselves killed before you can decide, it’s kind of a moot point, isn’t it, boys?”

 

“And why can’t you do it?” asks Sam. “You’re an Archangel, you’re just as powerful. Why can’t you do whatever this thing is and shove him back yourself?”

 

Gabriel blinks at them sedately. His chewing slows until he finally swallows with careful deliberation. Leaning back in the chair so far it stands on one leg, he crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows. He gestures to himself from head to toe. “I’m too young and pretty to die. Just because I’m willing to help you out doesn’t mean I’m suicidal. Honestly, you’ve got a snowballs’ chance in Hell - pun intended - of this actually working, but hey! It’s still a chance! But just because I want to see this over and done with, doesn’t mean I’m willing to kill myself over it.”

 

Dean crosses his arms, wings folding down in a warm weight against his back. “And if we stop the Apocalypse, what’s keeping them from starting it again, a hundred, two hundred years down the line? You said it before, you just want it to be over. This only prolongs the stalemate.”

 

Gabriel rolls his eyes. “You really are an idiot. Then again, you’re both babies. Barely outta diapers. What can you expect, really?”

 

“Hey!” exclaims Sam, but the awkward flailing of his wing throws him off and he grunts in annoyance, a tidal wave of frustration hitting the barrier Dean’s left wing makes between him and his over-emotional brother. 

 

“Yikes,” mutters Gabriel. “You’re all over the place, kid. Anyway, use what little brains you have. What do you think is going to happen when Michael and Lucifer realize they have no true vessels to battle it out?”

 

Dean shrugs. “Find different ones?”

 

Gabriel slaps a hand on the table and the cake vanishes as he leans over, expression fixed in a grim snarl. “ _War_ , you sorry excuses for angels! It’ll be Heaven against Hell and Earth will be the battleground. It won’t just be Michael and Lucifer one-on-one, anymore! Is that _computing_ for you, Dean-o?”

 

_Son of a bitch,_ Dean thinks resentfully, and not a bit terrified. He and Sam need no words between them in that instant to communicate just how distasteful they find that situation. Especially Dean. He’s _seen_ what could become of Earth, if given the chance. And that was just the demons. He can’t imagine anything worse, but honestly? The angels? Not so caring on the collateral damage. He’d be surprised if there’s an Earth _left_ if the angels and demons go to war because Michael and Lucifer can’t have their one-on-one smack-down. 

 

The thought - the very concept - is horrifying. Half the world destroyed in an angelic duel is one thing, but an all out war between Heaven and Hell like Gabriel’s predicting? That’s even worse. 

 

“Okay,” he agrees, without much further thought. “Okay, we’ll do it your way.” He rubs a hand down his face. “Son of a bitch,” he adds, bitterly. 

 

“Just tell us what to do, and we’ll do it,” Sam agrees quietly. His sad, puppy eyes flicker over to Dean’s, wings drawn in close to his body defensively. He’s so expressive like this that Dean would be able to tell what’s running through his mind without the ability to sense his emotions. Sam gives him one of his supportive ‘calm down, Dean’ looks, because Dean’s probably broadcasting his frustration for the world to hear. 

 

“Then send away the humans and let’s get started.”

 

_Angel boot-camp. Awesome,_ thinks Dean loudly. 

 

_Tell me about it,_ Sam replies. 

 

And, well, _shit._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here on out you're going to be seeing a lot more of Gabriel...


	22. Genius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: Pre-S05E11 - Sam, Interrupted

_Genius  
*_

Sammy’s always been smart. It’s been something Dean could be proud of, growing up. He got to be the one to brag, “My little brother got a full-ride to Stanford,” and watch the respect grow on people’s faces. 

 

Now, Dean may not be able to calculate fancy equations in his head and remember everything he reads like he’s some kind of dictionary, but he’s got his selling points too. He’s a damn _good_ hunter, that’s for sure - always been good with his hands - but Sammy’s always been the brains. The little-big genius of the operation. The Spock to his Kirk. 

 

But Sam’s always had problems Dean hasn’t. He overanalyzes things - _thinks_ too much. And sometimes he’s so assured of himself, he makes stupid-ass decisions, thinking that his brains will guide him through the shit-storm that follows. That he’s _smarter_ than everyone else, so there’s no way his plan can fail. 

 

Dean used to be the skeptic, but now Sam’s the one who over thinks and questions things to death. Asks too many damn useless questions. 

 

Which is why Dean’s the one who gets the hang of everything Gabriel tries to teach them first, and Sam’s the one left floundering. It’s frustrating Sam to no end, but Dean’s perversely smug. Finally, here’s something important that _Dean’s_ better at. That Sam can’t learn just from using his big, fat nerd brain and doing some research.

 

In fact, it’s _because_ Sam overanalyzes everything that he’s having trouble. Grace, Dean is discovering, is about _feeling_. It’s about _faith_. Dean never used to be one for much faith - still isn’t, really - but he knows how to have faith in his own body and skills. Extending that faith to include his two new appendages is easy as pie after he gets over the whole ‘having two new appendages’ bit. 

 

Sam, on the other hand, is, as Gabriel likes to put it, akin to a zoo animal released into the wild. He’s too domesticated. His brain overrides his instincts and he tries to control what can’t be controlled. Basically, he’s a giant pussy. The best part of all this is when Dean tells him this, Sam can’t retaliate, because Dean can now whoop his ass three ways from Sunday.

 

Once Dean accepts that it’s all in the soul - well - he’s had plenty of (hellish) experience in being just a soul. He figures out it’s all mind over matter pretty quickly. Belief plays a large part in it all. According to Gabriel (and Castiel), the difference between a pure angel’s Grace and a Nephil’s Grace is the influence of the soul’s restrictive paradigms. It’s the reason why human souls, once dead, revert to the image they find most comfortable. Sometimes that means you meet your 25-year old grandma in Heaven instead of your 75-year old, young-at-heart grandma. 

 

So what happens when a human soul has Grace?...is the question Sam asks. 

 

Well, fortunately, Dean’s preconceptions about angels excludes him from manifesting a full on halo, otherwise there would have been hell to pay. Dean’s incredibly grateful he doesn’t think of angels in white robes, strumming harps, with massive dove wings and gold circlets hovering over their heads, otherwise his Grace might have decided that was the way it wanted to manifest. 

 

Mercifully, Dean’s only got to contend with the wing bit of it all, though, apparently, there’s no getting out of that...ever. Human belief as a whole has moulded angelic Grace to manifest on the mortal plane in the shape of wings...ad nauseam. Sam gets an academic boner over it all and grills Gabriel to death on the subject. Dean cops out after the most basic of explanations and retreats outside to wax down his Baby. 

 

For God’s (Grandpa’s?) sake, he is not going to sit around discussing the freakin’ mechanics of human faith. No way. All he needs to know is that if humans believe something strongly enough, it shapes perception (which, after the Mordecai incident, they kind of already _knew_ that). Sadly, since Dean has a mortal soul, his Grace is permanently stuck in the shape of wings. Even after he dies, apparently. Unlike angels without vessels, Dean will always look like Dean-plus-wings and never a massive wavelength of celestial intent (Cas’s words, not Dean’s). 

 

So, basically, he’s stuck with the wings. Forever. Awesome.

 

After Gabriel’s test-run, he decides that whichever angel had been his parent, they’d been pretty powerful, almost extraordinarily so, because they’d passed that potential down to Dean and Sam. Dean might think of this as a good thing, if not for the glint that appears in Gabriel’s eyes and the way he turns into the angelic drill sergeant from hell. Yes, that’s an oxymoron; no, Dean does not care, because it’s true. Gabriel’s a dick and Cas thinks the entire thing is ‘fascinating’ so he stands around watching like the voyeur he is while Dean gets his ass kicked by Gabriel and Sam makes constipated faces as he tries to control his Grace. 

 

The first time Sammy manages to fly, he falls out of the air in front of Dean and Bobby on the porch and face-plants right into their cooler of beer. Bobby calls Sam an ‘idjit’ and Dean can’t stop laughing for the next hour, until Gabriel makes Cas drag him off to practice being a pervy-angelic voyeur himself. 

 

Angels are all a bunch of voyeuristic pervs. They have this ability to shift themselves onto different planes of existence (or as Dean calls it ‘become invisible’) so that they can basically be standing right next to you, breathing down your neck like a creepy stalker, and you wouldn’t know unless you were also an angel on the same plane of existence yourself. 

 

Dean’s having a bit of trouble doing the whole ‘stepping sideways’ thing. It’s a lot easier to pop himself from point A to point B when it doesn’t involve some kind of weird side-ways hop-twist onto a completely different _plane_. Of existence. Awesome. 

 

He’s decided he’s not even going to _attempt_ time-travel. _Ever_. He’s read Harry Potter, okay, and he has absolutely no desire to splinch himself or end up unravelling time because he did something stupid in the past that he wasn’t supposed to. 

 

Along with planes of existence and splinching comes _hiding,_ which is the first thing Gabriel drills into them _._ Most angels would never think to do what Gabriel has apparently done to his Grace in order to hide, which means that Dean and Sam will be able to see an angel coming from a mile away - their Grace shining like a beacon - and the angels who run into the brothers won’t question a thing, even if they sense something off. They’ll chalk it up to Dean and Sam being vessels and leave it at that, giving them the advantage. 

 

Of course, hiding his Grace is a lot harder than it sounds. And uncomfortable. It just downright feels _wrong_ trying to force it back inside his soul and shape it into something it’s not supposed to be. Grace-wings are supposed to remain Grace-wings, they protest. Of course, Sam can still barely get his to twitch in the right direction, so he’s got time to get used to it. 

 

Hopefully. 

 

Then Dean and Sam get a call from an old friend and they find themselves checking into the loony bin only half-trained.   
  
Awesome.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, it's kind of half-assed, but I am so swamped right now you have no idea. *runs and hides from mountain of work* Anyway, have an info-dump chapter! Yay!


	23. Dysfunctional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: none

_Dysfunctional_

_*_

The problem with Gabriel is he’s a prick. A class-A dick. He’s righteous and judgmental and always thinks he knows best because, hey, Archangel! Also, Dean refuses to forgive him for fucking with them like he did, so he kind of hates the guy on principle. 

 

When Gabriel worms his way onto Team Free Will through judicious application of threats and logic and metaphorical carrots on sticks, Dean keeps up a mantra in his head of _I hate him, I hate him, one day I’m gonna gank this sonnuvabitch and I’m gonna make it_ hurt _._

 

Except that he thinks Gabriel’s onto him, because why else would he flap around, popping in and out like some kind of Harry Potter wannabe on a perpetual sugar high, offering them cake, and always, _always_ referring to himself as _Uncle_ Gabriel? Gabriel, he realizes, has him pegged way too well, because it’s a week before he realizes he’s stopped flinching every time he hears the word ‘Uncle’ attached to the front of Gabriel's name. And he actually ate the pie Gabriel brought 'round the other day.

 

_That’s just frickin’ awesome_ , he thinks, when he figures it out.

 

It’s actually worse than he's willing to admit. He’s watching re-runs of _Dr. Sexy, MD_ on late-night t.v. (because, guess what, Nephilim can’t have more than five hours sleep or they _over_ sleep) when one of the scenes strikes him as very familiar to the scene he and Sam had to act out (before Dean got _shot_ ) in Uncle Gabriel’s stupid t.v. land. His brain skids to a halt when he registers the direction of his thoughts. He’d fucking called the bastard _Uncle Gabriel_ in his own goddamned head. 

 

Dean may have exploded a few lightbulbs during that realization and pissed off a very cranky Bobby. He’d spent the rest of the night, barring two hours of sleep, drinking Bobby’s liquor cabinet dry and imagining _Uncle_ Gabriel’s ugly mug on the wall so he could pretend to shoot it. 

 

He hates that the stupid son of a bitch has wormed his way into his head. He’s _planted_ himself in Dean’s mind as Gabriel, _Uncle_ of Dean and Sam. Dean still hates his stinkin’ angel guts, but it’s the same way he might hate a distant relative - a simmering resentment he can do nothing about because they’re _family._

 

Goddamn Gabriel is goddamn family. So Dean can’t shoot his nuts off.

 

He draws the line there, though. He refuses to think about what that means for the rest of the angels. He refuses to so much as even _consider_ Lucifer or Michael or Raphael or Zachariah or anyone of those other dicks to be _family._ Just Cas and...stupid fucking Gabriel. 

 

Although, technically, they’re both his ‘uncles’, in Dean’s head, Cas is his brother and Gabriel is that annoying uncle everyone pretends isn’t related to them but still has to acknowledge on occasion. 

 

They are one seriously fucked up, dysfunctional family.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy American Turkey Day, have a (Dean Winchester flavoured) family-oriented filler chapter!


	24. Insane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: S05E11 - Sam, Interrupted

_Insane_

_*_

When Dean checks himself and his brother into the mental hospital, he simply tells the truth. It’s...cathartic. 

 

He gets to lay it all out there on the table - every last detail - every last worry and problem. He even gets to psycho-analyze Sammy, which is fun. He definitely gets a kick out of it, that’s for sure. 

 

They go in with fake papers and it takes a little shuffling around trying to arrange themselves so their wings don’t brush. The head shrink watches with raised eyebrows as they do a shuffle dance with their chairs, and Dean figures it’s only helping their case, not harming it. He grins at the guy winningly. 

 

Sammy’s act is brilliant. When the doctor asks him how he’s feeling, Sam leads with the Apocalypse spiel. Thing is, Dean knows it’s not as much of an act as they’re pretending. Sammy _does_ blame himself for letting Lucifer out, but hey, Dean’s not exactly Mr. Innocent, either.

 

The doc, Dr. Fuller, is tasting steadily more nervous. His eyes dart over to Dean frequently for assurance and Dean can’t wait to pull out _his_ side of the story. 

 

Sammy’s lamenting that he let out Lucifer and the only people who give a shit are their completely dysfunctional half-angel family. Dean gets to mention that bit. 

 

At first, Dr. Fuller thinks they’re talking about deceased relatives. He makes sympathetic noises and scratches something on his yellow pad.

 

“No, it’s Castiel and Uncle Gabriel,” Sam corrects him once they catch onto the misconception. Dean shoots his brother a quick look, because the kid just said _Uncle_ Gabriel - _goddamn_ that sneaky son of a bitch. “Castiel always wears a trench coat and Uncle Gabriel’s an archangel who likes sweets.”

 

Dean watches as the doc scribbles with increasing frenzy. This is probably like psychiatrist heaven. Too bad he and Sammy aren’t actually crazy. 

 

“And how exactly are you and the Archangel Gabriel related?” the Doc asks calmly. Well, his voice is calm, but his emotions certainly aren’t. Sam and Dean exchange another set of looks. This is hilarious. 

 

“He’s our angel-Mom’s older brother,” says Sam in all seriousness. “He’s not very happy that I started the Apocalypse either.”

 

The Doc nods along like he has a clue what Sam is saying. Dean’s trying really damn hard not to laugh. 

 

“So you believe your, uh, mother is an angel in heaven?”

 

“No, she came down to Earth,” Sam corrects with a straight face. And even though the situation is amusing and they’re messing with the doc’s head, the words coming out of Sam’s mouth are one-hundred percent sincere. “We think she possessed our mother to have us.”

 

The doc pauses in his scribbling for just a moment. “Possessed?” he repeats, blinking slowly. “So your mother is possessed by an angel?”

 

“No, Mom’s dead,” Dean says.

 

The doc radiates the hot flush of complete confusion.

 

Sam stares at the floor, hunching his shoulders. He’s laying the act on a bit thick now. “Mom died because of me - killed by a demon.” 

 

Dean’s lips twitch down in a small frown, actually concerned about how much of Sam’s act is not just bullshit. Does his brother really blame himself for Mom, as well? “See what I mean, Doc?” he interrupts. “The kid’s been beating himself up for months about everything! I mean, none of it’s really his fault, you know.”

 

“It’s...not?” the doc ventures carefully, now eyeing Dean like he’s the crazy one. 

 

Dean should win an award for this shit. He could go into business as a con artist. Oh, right, he already kind of is. They just don’t pay him. 

 

“No. Mom died because of the demon, plain and simple. As for the Apocalypse, there was this other demon, Ruby. She got him addicted to demon blood and near the end he was practically chugging the stuff.” He shots Sam a stern look and the kid looks appropriately contrite. It’s a freaking comedy routine in here. With all seriousness, he tells Dr. Fuller, “My brother’s not evil. He was just...high...yeah?” _You think that did it?_ he finishes in his head. 

 

_I think he’s pretty convinced we need shock therapy._

 

Sam’s voice echoing in the part of him that used to be so private and enclosed is still pretty high up there on the meter of weird and creepy, but Dean had realized immediately what kind of tactical advantage being able to communicate telepathically could hold for them if they could only master it. Unsurprisingly, Sam’s taken more to the telepathy than he has to flying or turning invisible. 

 

Dean puts the final touch on their crazy act. “Anyway, doc, you think you can just fix him up so we can get back to traveling around the country hunting monsters?”

 

The doctor gives them both a shaky smile, holds up a finger in the universal signal for ‘please hold’ and picks up his phone. Dean sends his brother a mental high-five when Fuller gets his secretary on the line and asks her to cancel his lunch. 

 

As the hour drags on, both Dean and Sam expound on their jobs as hunters, their parts in the Apocalypse, and their messed up, dysfunctional family. When they get to the part about having invisible, intangible wings made of God’s Grace, Fuller goes red in the face and clears his throat several times. He thinks they’re absolutely _insane_. And it really does sound completely implausible, despite that they’ve done nothing but tell the God-honest truth. 

 

Dean’s eyebrows go right into his hairline when Fuller gets through nearly five pages of hastily scribbled notes. His handwriting - what little of it Dean has glimpsed - is feverish. He’s scrawling as frantically as he can to keep up with each line of truth they spout. Dean’s having fun going into all sorts of gory details while Sam plays the role of contrite, misguided youth. 

 

The fact that their fun gets cut short when they run into the monster they’re hunting within seconds of leaving Dr. Fuller’s office actually disappoints Dean. Sam’s grateful they don’t have to stay any longer, but he and Dean agree to hold off on ganking the creepy bitch until they’ve had a chance to chat with Martin. 

 

He regrets it. Nothing Sam says to sooth his ruffled feathers will keep him from regretting not having ganked the monster right then and there when she pulled on those gloves and _smiled_. He knew she knew who they were and she’d _enjoyed_ that. 

 

_We don’t know what she is or how to kill her!_ Sam had argued the entire time Dean was being... _violated_. Sonnova-freakin-bitch!

 

_So?_ he had snapped, having to concentrate hard to keep his thoughts (and Grace) from shattering into a chaotic swirl of vengeance and hate. _Whammy the bitch and let’s flap outta here._

 

_And have our faces plastered on every t.v. on this side of the seaboard? Dean, we’re trying to keep a low profile here! We can’t bring any attention to ourselves. Lucifer can’t find out about our Grace._ Sam’s voice in his head is always ordered and precise. It sounds just like when he’s speaking out loud, only occasionally interspersed with images and feelings. Sammy likes to complain about Dean’s ‘voice’ being the complete opposite. 

 

So while some monster whore had her fingers in unmentionable places, he didn’t bother holding back the rush of disgruntlement or fury. He just sent Sam a bunch of disjointed images and let the bitch sort through them on his own. Mostly they consisted of his middle finger.

 

Dean’s in a seriously bad mood by the time they find Martin. They listen to his explanation, assure him they’re on it and suffer through such humiliating psychiatric shit that Dean relegates it to the back of his mind under twenty different kinds of padlock and throws away every last key. They are _never_ discussing this case once they get out of this place. 

 

Ever. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to our regularly scheduled episode rehash


	25. Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: S05E11 - Sam, Interrupted

_Hunt_

_*_

Dean and Sam have their own little special ‘angel radio’. They’ve tested how far they can send thoughts and so far, even half a country away, it doesn’t seem to make a difference. As long as they can focus properly, they can communicate. It’s damn handy, and just a little bit awesome. Except for the part where Dean thinks too loudly sometimes and Sam picks up on his mental frequency. Where angels are concerned, privacy really does go completely out the window. _Nothing_ is sacred. 

 

Gabriel says that if Dean and Sam tried tuning into a different frequency, they would be able to eavesdrop on the Host, but then they’d run the risk of being noticed, so he hasn’t taught them how to switch from Winchester AM to Angel FM yet. Personally, Dean can do without having the voices of thousands of yesmen in his head 24/7. 

 

Still, the benefits of telepathy outweigh the annoyances, so Dean decides to put it firmly in the ‘awesome’ category and ignore the rest. It means he and Sam can split up and keep tabs on one another easily - which cuts their monster research time in half. Sam hits the jackpot in the morgue, and Martin manages to I.D. the ugly bitch - a wraith. They’re deathly allergic to silver. Easy peasy. 

 

Readying for the hunt is almost therapeutic. Dean feels like he and Sam haven’t really done a good old-fashioned monster hunt in far too long. Recently it’s been all about the demons and angels and Lucifer and Michael - the Apocalypse takes priority. But getting back to the basics feels good. It reminds him of how they used to live life before all the shit really hit the fan. Back when their biggest issue was a single demon and not the granddaddy of all murdering, heartless bastards.

 

Dean pops out to where they’d stashed the Impala to collect some sharp silver knives and marvels at how much easier it’s going to be to hunt in the future if they can do Cas’s disappearing act all over the place. They’ve waited for lights out to take out the wraith masquerading as a nurse. It sickens him to think of it feeding offa these poor chumps who barely know up from down. The worst part of it all is that they can’t even defend themselves. They’re like sitting ducks - an open monster all-you-can-eat buffet. And no one will believe them when they say there’s a monster out there because they’re in a _mental institution_. 

 

After all their brushes with insane asylums, Dean thinks he might be developing a mild aversion. Okay, maybe a bit more than mild. He friggin’ hates the places. They’re creepy as fuck and when shit like this goes down, it just makes ‘em ten times worse. He’ll take San Quentin over this place any day. 

 

There are very few night nurses, so it’s easy to slip outside their cells and begin the hunt. They each take different routes and plan to meet in the middle. It’s made all the more easy by their own private radio frequency. Who needs walkie-talkies or cellphones when you’ve got angel radio à la Winchester?

 

_Sam, anything?_

 

Sam deliberately sends him an image of the empty corridor he’s in. It throws Dean’s orientation off for maybe a few seconds and he sends back his annoyance. _Show off._

 

Sam only feels smug in return. Dean would like to remind his little brother that he can barely flap more than half of Bobby’s salvage yard and that he lands like a drunken turkey, all limbs akimbo and tripping out of the air to fall on his ass. 

 

_Shut up,_ Sam returns, but after that he refrains from sending any more disorienting images. It’s a good thing, too, because it’s Dean who first senses the wraith. He stops in front of one of the patients’ doors as a cold chill brushes over his wings - fear - and then, more prominently, a tendril of slick, nauseating wrongness that coils up his spine. He steps up to the window on the door and peers in, eyes darting from corner to corner until, with a screech and a crash, a woman slams into the door, face white and eyes wild. Dean’s glad Sam’s not there to see him yelp and jump back, wings arching aggressively. 

 

_Found it!_ he calls, one hand over his heart to slow the frantic beats. 

 

_Where are you?_

 

_Block C. Room 306. The wraith’s after a woman. I’m going in._

 

Dean doesn’t pay attention to Sam’s annoyed ‘Damnit Dean!’s echoing in his skull. The woman is pounding at the door frantically, tears trekking down her face as she screams for help. It’s waking up the whole corridor and soon some of the night nurses are going to come investigate. He needs to handle this _now_ before they get an audience. 

 

“Stand back!” he shouts at her, making a quick gesture. The woman’s mouth snaps shut and she whirls around, back plastered against the window so all he can see is her sweat-streaked hair. 

 

Okay, then, plan B. Plan A was break down the door. Plan B is shift into the room. This is going to require some invisible dimension shifting if he doesn’t want to give himself away, which is hard enough at the best of times, but under pressure? 

 

The woman’s terrified scream decides him. For an instant he can hear Yoda’s voice in his head superimposed with Gabriel’s face saying ‘Do or do not, there is no try.’ 

 

_What the hell?_ thinks Sam, feeling mildly disturbed.

 

Dean screws his eyes shut, snaps open his wings and _shifts_. 

 

It’s a miracle he doesn’t land on top of the wraith. Instead he gets a glimpse of a twisted, pockmarked face and then it’s slamming him against the wall. Clearly, he landed in a visible spectrum - damn - that had not been the plan. The insane woman screams again, all wordless noises and piercing wails. Dean flips himself around, but the space is so small and he’s completely disoriented, so his wing passes straight through the crazy woman. 

 

It’s...like trippin’. And flu. All rolled into one. This woman is _ill_ and it reflects on her soul. It’s nauseating just how much pain and desperation radiate off of what had once been pristine, shining purity. Dean snaps his wing in close to his body, feathers bristling and stomach roiling. 

 

He feels bad for the woman. Wants to heal her - save her from that pain and hurt that’s twisted her mind so sharply that it broke. It’s a swelling urge that builds in his chest like a balloon about to pop. It leaves him gasping against the wall, paralyzed and incapable of stopping the wraith from fleeing out the door. 

 

“Help!” the monster calls in her guise as the nurse. “Help, please, the patient is out of control!” 

 

Dean stumbles upright, swaying in place with his wings stuck to his back like glue, refusing to open. He can’t experience that horror again, so they remain stubbornly close. It throws off his balance more than he anticipated, so he lurches around like a drunken monkey for a few precious seconds. 

 

_Sammy!_ he thinks desperately. 

 

Sam’s mind-voice is weak and disgusted. _Dean...whatever that was...you shared it...idiot._

 

So Sam’s out of commission as well. Awesome. 

 

The wraith gets away in the confusion; the orderlies show up all muscle and white scrubs with needles to calm the rowdy patients and Dean finally - _finally -_ manages to pull himself together enough to go invisible. He can’t move in a coordinated fashion, but he can still shift. He focuses everything he has on tripping sideways out of sight right before the first muscle-nurse bursts through the door and lunges at the crazy, sobbing woman. 

 

He haunts the corner of the room until the woman is drugged up to her eyeballs, then staggers out the door behind one of the orderlies. 

 

_Sam?_

 

_Dean? Where are you?_

 

Dean stops to lean against a wall. _Outside the room. The wraith got away…_

 

There’s an abrupt kind of static in his head that is probably Sam cursing. _...kay...Okay...Now that it’s on to us, it’ll be harder to corner._

 

_I know,_ Dean grunts. He pushes off the wall with a great heaving breath and shakes out every last feather. There’s no one in the immediate vicinity to accidentally walk through, so there’s nothing to fea--be _wary_ of. 

 

It’s a strange game of cat and mouse from there. The mouse is exceptionally good at hiding - it knows all the shortcuts, all the secret little spaces only it can access. It’s got the home ground advantage...but there are two of them and one of it and sooner or later it’s going to run out of places to hide.  

 

The problem with the wraith being able to disguise itself as human, Dean reflects, is that it can find a large group of them and blend in easily. And even when he finds it and has it in his sights, he can’t go after it without causing a fuss. The monster bitch knows it too. She keeps darting glances over her shoulder and around every corner, expecting Dean or Sam to jump out at her. 

 

If he can’t kill it yet, he’ll just follow it. Eventually it’s going to have to leave the group. There aren’t many orderlies around at night and they’ve all got their own jobs to do. Dean watches with hungry eyes, stalking its every move. 

 

It isn’t until Sam finally joins him, large frame pressed up against a corner and wholly conspicuous, that he realizes how this would look to any other hunter. Unless that hunter knew the nurse was a wraith...Dean would look like the creature that goes bump in the night. 

 

_This is all kinds of messed up,_ he informs Sammy mentally, even though they’re standing right next to each other. Sam looks around, brow furrowing. _To your right, idiot._

 

Sam exhales. “Dean, I can’t see you like that.”

 

_No shit. I’m invisible. Come on._ He guides them around the corner and peeks round the next to make sure their prey hasn’t slipped away in the meantime. 

 

_What’s messed up?_ Sam asks as they wait. 

 

Dean glances back for a second. _This whole thing. I mean, how do you think this would look to anyone else who didn’t know the chick’s a human-killing wraith?_

 

It doesn’t take Sam long to figure out what Dean means. To draw the parallels between them, now, and some of the monsters they’ve hunted over the years. A whole body shiver wracks his frame and his wings furl and unfurl in distress. He smells both nervous and...embarrassed? “But she _is_ a human-killing wraith,” he mutters under his breath. 

 

We _know that, genius…_ the ‘but they don’t’ is left implied. 

 

“Yeah, and the FBI thinks we’re messed up, satanic serial killers,” Sam points out bitchily. 

 

_Point,_ Dean concedes. _Come on, twinkle toes, coast is clear._

 

They trail after the coat-tails of the orderlies and nurses. Dean stays ahead to make sure the wraith doesn’t slip away and hide. He thinks about the FBI - about Victor and all the other law enforcement they’ve tangled with over the years. Sam’s got a very good point. To ordinary folk, he supposes they already look like monsters. 

 

It’s not exactly reassuring, but enough of them have thanked him over the years that he can let it go. What matters is that lives are saved. Those who know the truth are the only ones whose opinions matter. 

 

Dean sets his mind back on the hunt; narrows his focus and sets his sights on the prize. Being on another plane of existence is handy because he doesn’t have to worry about being seen or heard. It’s like that time he and Sammy were ghosts trying to stop Alistair from breaking the reaper seal; silent, invisible and deadly. 

 

The orderlies and nurses reach the main office block and begin to separate. Their target hovers for a bit longer, eyes darting around. Dean makes Sam stay far enough behind that she won’t see, hear or smell him. He takes great pleasure in walking right up to the monster and staring it straight in the eye. Her eyes can’t see him, so they gaze straight past him, and he smirks, because all it would take now would be a quick shift to the right dimension and a knife straight through the heart. 

 

Of course, that would require a lot more finesse than he is currently capable of - perhaps one day, but not now. It would also be a bad idea to do it right outside the doctors’ office. 

 

The wraith eventually relaxes and sneaks off. Dean walks in her footsteps, mind open to Sam as he waits for the perfect moment. As soon as they’re alone, secluded, far enough away that if it screams, no one will come running...he’ll strike. 

 

_Dean. I’m going to circle around._ Naturally, Sam practically has the building plan memorized like the giant nerd he is. 

 

_If I get a shot, I won’t wait,_ he informs his little brother. 

 

His fingers caress his knife, running up and down the handle and tapping against the silver plated blade. It’s polished to a shine and reflects the harsh white hospital lighting like a slice of moonlight. Silver is tough to take care of, tarnishes and breaks so easily, so he’s always very careful about how he treats his silver-plated weapons. 

 

Both he and the wraith stop half-way down the block of solitary confinement rooms. The padded white rooms that always come to mind when you think of mental hospitals. The ones that’ll give you nightmares about being trapped with no way to escape. The wraith reaches for the door to a room, then stops, hands clenching around the handle. It looks up and around, nostrils flaring and eyes narrowed. 

 

“I know you’re there. Come out, _hunter_.”

 

Sam steps out from around the corner. He looms at the other end like an avenging angel of death. Dean’s the only one who sees his wings, though, so the wraith only snorts. “Just the one? Where’s your brother?”

 

It takes two tries before he gets it right, but then Dean slips sideways and the sound of his scrubs rustling and the slap of his feet on the floor alert the bitch of his presence. She stiffens and whirls around, eyes wide. “No one’s that quiet!” She steps back from the door, head whipping between them. Sam’s blocking one end and Dean the other - she’s got no escape; so it’s no surprise when he hears a _shtick_ sliding noise and something sharp and deadly comes shooting out of her wrist. “You...something’s not quite right about you. Either of you.” She’s making conversation, probably trying to buy time. “Neither of you seem affected.”

 

“Affected?” Sam questions. 

 

“By my touch. You should be crazy as loons by now. What’s your secret?” She’s maneuvered her way into the middle of the hall, leaving her front and back open; it seems like a dumb move except that she’s also directly under an air vent. Dean’s wings tense - ready to intervene if she tries to go for it.

 

“So, wraiths secrete something that makes you crazy. Great. No wonder they’re all nutcases in here.” 

 

Sam shoots him an affronted look, because he’s a bleeding heart like that always gets offended for those who aren’t there to defend themselves. Dean raises an eyebrow. Sam rolls his eyes and they come to rest on the tensed wraith. “So, this secretion, does it only work on humans? What about other monsters?”

 

The wraith lets out a small huff, as if it’s amused, before the hidden meaning behind Sam’s question sinks in and she stiffens. Her eyes go wide. “So _that’s_ why it didn’t work! You’re not human!” She frowns. Dean thinks he sees her eyes flicker to the ceiling - and the vent. “Why are you here for me, then? Surely I never did anything to you?”

 

“We’re hunters,” Dean replies dryly. 

 

The wraith turns her head to eye him. “You...you did something earlier. What are you? Why would you protect the humans? They’re _food_.”

 

Sam makes a gagging noise of disgust in the back of his throat and prowls a little closer. The wraith stiffens and whirls on him, so Dean takes the opportunity to step lightly as well. 

 

“Tell you what, since you’re going to die anyway, I’ll tell you,” Dean starts. 

 

“Not everything out there eats humans,” Sam adds with a wrinkled nose. “In fact, sometimes it’s the opposite. We _protect_.”

 

“ _I’ve_ never heard of anything that…” the wraith trails off with a little choking noise. “No.”

 

“Guess you’ve never met an angel before. Guess you’ve some shitty luck, bitch.”

 

“ _No_ ,” the wraith gasps again, panicked, and goes for the vent. 

 

Dean’s ready. He’s there in a heartbeat. Within two more, it’s over. The wraith is dead, the asylum is safe. The hunt is over.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a longer chapter, before the holiday madness consumes my soul! Also, STAR WARS this Sunday, I've sworn off all social media until I've seen it. SO PSYCHED.


	26. Decay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode Tag: S05E12 - Swap Meat

_Decay  
  
*_

Dean understood that an angel’s Grace was akin to a nuclear reactor stuffed inside a human body. He also understood that an angel needed a special vessel in order to contain that power and that anything less than the perfect vessel would eventually...fall apart. Decay. Like the poor bastard Lucifer was riding. He’d seen the way the guy’s face was peeling; dissolving like acid was eating away at it, centimeter by centimeter.

 

But he hadn’t worried much about it beyond the fact that it made the Devil all the more desperate to get his sick little hands on Sam. Until Sam stumbled through the door of their motel room spitting up blood in some other kid’s body.

 

Which meant the Sam-that-wasn’t-Sam...was really Sam’s body, wrong soul. No Grace. 

 

He’d known the moment the impostor had walked into sight. He may have looked like Sam, but there wasn’t a glimmer of Grace - wings or otherwise. The shape was right, but the soul was all wrong. Human. There was the scent of grease and brimstone, just a faint odor - not enough to be a demon, but enough to know this soul was marked for Hell. 

 

Dean had played along, lead the impostor back to the motel, then taken him down and tied him up, thinking he was glad for angelic strength because if this thing was a shapeshifter, he wouldn’t have been able to overcome it in the past in a one-on-one fight. 

 

That’s when Sam had stumbled through the door in the body of a pimply teenager - the same one from the diner - a smear of blood on the corner of his mouth. 

 

It’s at this point that Dean figures out what’s going on and it hits him like a freight train that for all intents and purposes...Sam is _possessing_ someone. Riding their meatsuit. It punches him right in the gut, what they _are._ That somewhere beneath the flesh of their bodies...there’s an angelic Grace. And _that -_ that’s the real them. The real Dean and Sam are a melding of soul and Grace and though Gabriel hasn’t brought up the topic, Dean comprehends now that if they lost these bodies...they could probably find new ones. 

 

Pimple-Sammy looks like he’s dying of plague. He coughs up a small splatter of blood onto his new body’s hand and clutches at his stomach, groaning. “Dean…”

 

The Sam-impostor’s eyes widens at the sight. He struggles, throwing all of Sam’s body’s considerable strength against his bindings, but Dean knows pre-Nephil Sam too well and he’s made sure there’s no escape, not even by gigantor muscle-bound idiots. “Oh shit,” he exclaims in Sam’s voice. “What did you do to my body!”

 

Seeing Sammy’s great, big, black wings arcing off such a spindly, pathetic looking body is disconcerting. Dean’s a little disgusted because it just seems so _wrong_ to be seeing bits of Sam stuck onto someone else’s thin, pasty face. His eyes slide past the constraints of human flesh and suddenly there’s a ghostly imprint of Sam’s true form projecting just beyond the skin of the kid—angel glow and all. His naked imprint is too smooth and shiny, like he’s made of satin, and his eyes are solid almonds of pure white. His soul is laced with Grace, like marbled veins of shining obsidian that coalesce and burst out of his too-smooth, shimmering back in arcing feathers. It’s creepy as hell, but it feels so... _Sam_ ; this is Sam, pure and unfiltered. No slide of muscle and flesh and rush of blood to dampen the effect of his presence. 

 

He can see the fragile bonds anchoring Sam inside the body, and where they connect there’s a sense of burning decay - like cancer. Sam’s barely holding on, he wants to burst out of the body, but then he’d have no where to go. He’d just be a shining, brilliant, man-shaped melding of soul and Grace burning people’s eyes and exploding glass and technology every time he tried to communicate. He _knows_ this like he knows that Sam doesn’t have much longer before that body burns into nothing. And when it does...

 

It’s terrifying. Dean’s frozen, eyes wide and locked on his brother. 

 

“Dean,” Sam repeats in a reedy, whiny voice that carries an echo of his true voice behind it. “I-” he has to pause as his throat cracks and he coughs again. “I c-can feel this body...it’s...it can’t handle my Grace. It’s...falling apart.”

 

“No shit,” is all Dean can say. He turns to the kid, to the _witch_ , since that’s clearly what the little _idiot_ is. He feels like he has to peel his eyes away from Sam like you’d peel away a bandaid—slowly and painfully. “Kid...you’re in deep shit.”

 

The kid strains in Sam’s body, but all of Sam’s Grace-given strength is gone and Dean’s knots hold strong. “What did you do to my body!” he exclaims again, Sam’s regular voice going up in pitch. Dean’s a little impressed by the shrillness. The icy chill of fear radiates from the soul in Sam’s body like creeping frost on a window. 

 

He crouches in front of the idiot in Sam’s body. “Look at me. Now shut up and listen. You stuck my brother in your body with some spell—hell if I know why—but it was a dumbass move. See, my brother and I are...special. Our...souls...are powerful and can’t be contained by just any body. The force of Sam’s...soul...in your body is destroying it. Leave it too long and it’ll disintegrate. Literally. Think Nagasaki. Your body is Nagasaki and my brother’s soul is the atomic bomb.”

 

Sam is stricken with horror behind him. He’s managed to prop himself up against the window sill. His elbow has shoved back the curtain slightly, but not enough that passersby can stick their noses into their business and call 911. Sammy’s horror mixed with his decay smells positively terrible. Tastes it too. 

 

_Dean,_ he thinks miserably, _the kid didn’t know what he was doing. I can’t be responsible for this...he’s dying!_

 

Dean whips his head over his shoulder, wings bristling. “I’d be more concerned with the fact that once that body fails on you, you’ll be stuck with _no body_.”

 

If anything, Sammy goes even more bleeding heart on him. The big girl. “Oh, no! I’ll burn people’s eyes out…”

 

Dean has to wonder, then, what the difference is between Nephilim and full angels? That they have their own bodies made for them? That they have a human soul and thus have their own minds and can make their own decisions? They’ve got an unchanging human form that’s not just a wavelength of celestial intent?

 

The more Dean thinks about the differences, the more he decides they’re really only superficial...they’re really exactly alike right where it counts in the hunters’ book of monsters. 

 

So. _Nephilim._ Dean and Sam are a _Nephilim._ Just like Cas is a Seraph and Gabriel is an Archangel. But they’re all still _angels_ , just like being American instead of...Siberian...doesn’t mean you’re a different kind of species. Dean and Sam are just a different breed of _angel_. And the only difference between angels and...everything else they hunt, is simply a matter of power. 

 

Dean ponders how he’s managed to become so philosophical about this shit. Or existentialist. Or whatever you call it. Just, seeing Sammy in a body that’s not his own, but knowing without a doubt that it’s still _Sammy—_ that it’s not the body that’s Sam, but the creepy looking soul with the great big hulking wings attached that’s Sam - Grace sparkle and all - well it kind of just drives it all home how...how _not-human_ they are. How very much like the other angels they are.

 

He’s seen angels change bodies before. Like all they’re doing is changing clothes. Demons are even worse, because they can take over _any_ body. Angels only have a limited selection. It had never really occurred to Dean that if worst came to worst...he and Sam could do the same thing. 

 

He’d always thought their bodies and souls were inextricably linked. Guess not. 

 

“Okay, someone please tell me what’s going on,” says the body snatcher burger kid who’s wearing Sam’s meatsuit. 

 

Dean jerks out of his contemplation and narrows his eyes. He points a damning finger. “You, kid, are an idiot, that’s what’s going on. You got in over your head—what, did you think demon-granted powers was a fun way of getting back at school bullies? Did you ever consider the part where you sell your soul for them and when the time comes and you _die_ , that they drag you down to Hell and torture and twist you into an unrecognizable monster?” By this point his face is inches from the kid’s and the guy has managed to mirror Sam’s most pathetic puppy face, with his wide eyes and drawn brows. “See, Hell? Time moves slow down there, so a month up here? That’s like ten _years_ down there. Imagine how many centuries of torture you’ll endure?”

 

“Dean…” Sam warns him. 

 

Dean waves him off with an annoyed flick of his wing. His eyes are all for the kid; the kid that’s going to crack any second now, because if there’s anything Dean knows how to do, it’s be convincing. “Listen up, kid. You think you can keep that body? Think twice. Once Sammy here’s done with yours and it collapses and dies on him...you think he’s not going to slip back in there with you?” He flicks the kid’s forehead for emphasis. “And either he’ll squash your weak little soul down or he’ll kick it out, because, hey, _not_ your body, and then where will you be? Body-less. And the reapers will come for your soul and hand you over to the demons and it’ll be hellfire and the racks for you for the next several centuries-”

 

“Dean!” Sam complains again, because the kid’s popping Sam’s wide puppy eyes right outta his skull while his throat clenches and his lungs heave as he hyperventilates to the grotesque picture Dean is painting in his head. The fear is so strong it’s like standing in an icy tundra, and it’s mixing with the cloyingly sweet taste of worry, tinged with the ashes of guilt. 

 

“Shut up, Sam, or don’t you want your body back?”

 

Sam falls quiet, except for the occasional hacking cough. Dean glares at the kid. “So what’s it gonna be? You switch back now and you’ll probably be able to recover from having the force of Sam’s radioactive soul in your body, or…you cling to that body. See if I care, because either way I get my brother back. It’s up to you.”

 

The kid swallows, long and heavy. “I…”

 

Sam pushes off the window sill, shuffling forward. He’s looking a little zombified, with the way his limbs move stiffly. Dean imagines it’s like moving the strings on a marionette. Funny. His little brother’s Pinocchio.

 

Sam gets close enough that his wings brush Dean’s and sends an electrified tingle up and down his feathers. Grace on Grace is one of the weirdest sensations Dean’s ever felt. It’s hard to classify. He doesn’t know whether it’s comforting, warm, cold, or, hell, even arousing. (Which he really tries not to think about. Ever). Sometimes it seems like all of them or one of them, so he and Sam have decided to avoid the sensation as much as possible. 

 

“Sorry,” Sam mumbles, shooting him an apologetic look from the corner of his eye. It just makes his meatsuit’s face look whiny and insipid. The stern glare he tries to direct at the kid in his body looks even more ridiculous and Dean pulls his wings in tight and close to contain himself before he ends up ruining the dramatic moment. 

 

Seriously, though, it’s hilarious. 

 

“Gary,” says Sam evenly - and of _course_ Sam knows the burger kid’s name already, “If you tell us what’s going on - why you targeted me and how you managed it, we’ll help you. We’ll get you back in your body and we can heal it for you-”

 

_We can?_ Dean throws out there. 

 

Sam’s wings flick in annoyance. _Yes, Cas can. And I know you think this’s funny, I can_ sense _it, Dean. This is serious._

 

Dean’s lips twitch and Sam sends a wave of irritated disgust over their little radio link.

 

“So I won’t be coughing up blood?” The kid - Gary - asks skeptically. 

 

“Exactly. Good as new.”

 

Sammy’s neanderthal face goes shrewd, because this kid is so not subtle at all. “Can you heal my allergies too? I’ve got this totally awful gluten allergy and it _sucks_ man. Like, I can’t eat _anything_ good. Can you? Cause if you can do that then cross my heart and hope to die I’ll tell you everything I know. Promise.”

 

Dean opens his mouth to lie his ass off - _of course we can, you just tell us what you know first and we’ll do the rest in a minute -_ but Sam beats him to it. 

 

“We’ll have to see. That may or may not be possible, but either way, the longer you prevaricate, the more your body deteriorates around me.” This is punctuated by an exaggerated, blood-speckled cough, which Sam wipes from the corner of his mouth and holds out in plain view. The red sheen of blood gleams wetly in the yellow light from the ceiling lamp.

 

_Prevaricate? You geek,_ Dean thinks. 

 

Again, Sam tries to slid him the evil eye, but fails spectacularly in that wimpy body - even with the glitter of his true form phasing in and out over the top, it’s just not enough to even begin to intimidate. Dean grins. 

 

The kid is also a nerd, so he understands Sam’s nerd-speak. He chews his (Sam’s) lip and it’s written all over his face and stinks up his soul that he feels backed into a corner. His shoulders slump. “How’d I know you won’t go back on your end of the deal?”

 

Dean crosses his arms and looms. “Because we’re the good guys. Idiot.”

 

The kid looks like he’d rather believe a pathological liar over Dean. Sammy rolls his eyes and shrugs his wings in annoyance. “Dean, why don’t you go call Cas? I’ll finish up in here.”

 

Which is how Dean gets himself kicked out of the motel room for the remainder of the exchange. Cas shows up barely a minute after Dean rings him and by the time they go back inside, the kid’s spilling his guts left, right and center. 

 

Dean is really, really unhappy to learn about the plan to hand Sam’s meatsuit over to Lucifer. Cas’s wings flare in surprise and he tastes both shocked and disturbed by the news before he reigns in his emotions. He confides that he hadn’t considered such a simple solution to the Vessel issue. Lucifer (and Michael) may not be able to possess vessels that are already occupied, but if they can swap out the souls occupying said vessels and then get those new souls to say ‘Yes’, it could potentially work. 

 

So now they have something else to worry about. Like inexperienced teenage witches gunning for their ‘meatsuits’. They get the kid to swap back, heal him up, and send him off with a warning. Naturally, Dean’s left to clean up the demon mess and Sam gets to finish up the salt and burn they’d been working, which leaves Cas to report back to Gabriel (and Bobby, who’s not particularly pleased with his latest house guest). It kind of puts them back up shit river with maybe only half a paddle and only the promise of Gabriel’s ‘fantastic’ plan that’s going to stuff the Devil back in his cage to keep them going. 

 

On the drive back to Bobby’s to reconvene, Sam is unusually quiet. Dean’s grip on the wheel is maybe a tad tighter than it should be and he’s already switched tapes three times because of the uncomfortably heavy atmosphere. He regrets insisting on taking the car with them instead of flying (even though it’s less conspicuous and not angelically traceable) because they have a long drive ahead of them and Sam’s pulling out the heavy angst card like no one’s business. 

 

Finally, he silences the speakers and unfolds a wing just enough to nudge Sam’s shoulder. “Okay, Sasquatch, lay it on me.”

 

Sam blinks at him innocently. “Lay what on you, Dean?”

 

“You know what. Whatever you’re brooding over.” He holds up a finger to stall any complaints. “Ah-ah—don’t bother lying. You know how pointless that is, these days.”

 

Sam huffs and his wings rustle in annoyance. They shift around and resettle again, which strikes Dean as sulky. Awesome. 

 

“Fine. Okay. It’s the...whole angelic vessel thing. I mean, I guess it doesn’t apply to us since we have our own bodies but...I mean, it’s just enough to know that we _could_ do it. Possess someone, I mean. Doesn’t that freak you out?”

 

“Yeah, it does; and?”

 

Sam shrugs. “Well...that’s it. It freaks me out.” He pulls a face. “Also, when I was in Gary it was...well, I guess I can kind of understand how Lucifer feels—whoa, don’t look at me like that, I’m not feeling _bad_ for him or anything, jeez! I’m just saying, I understand, okay? It was...I dunno how to describe it. Like my skin was too tight and nothing quite responded the way it should have, like moving through water or something, and I could _feel_ how I existed separately from his body, because the edges of my soul or Grace or whatever was burning him up from the inside. It was this _heat_ and pressure…” Sam finishes with a full body shudder. Dean’s hands are even tighter on the wheel. His baby brother turns unsettled eyes on him. “Now I’m back in my own body, I can feel how well I clicked into place, but I’m also aware of how easily I could get booted out again. The same thing could happen to you, too, Dean.”

 

Dean’s jaw tightens. _Yeah,_ he thinks, _don’t remind me._

 

Sam shoots him a look because of _course_ he heard that. No thoughts are sacred anymore. He _still_ hasn’t figured out how to completely keep his thoughts to himself when he’s…you know…takin’ care of things in the shower. It sucks. “Just...be careful, okay?”

 

Dean nods tightly. “Yeah, whatever, Sammy.”

 

And they drive on in silence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all. I'm back. Got a new laptop, only managed to get around to migrating all my crap this weekend. I have all my stories back - yay! But seriously, so so busy. Sorry to leave you all hanging so long. Remember, you can come bug me on Tumblr if you want, I swear I don't bite. Much.


	27. Divergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: S05E13 - The Song Remains The Same

_Divergence_

*

Dean kind of regrets that he slept with Anna when she pops up and tries to wipe Sam from existence. Then the bitch goes back in time to kill his parents and, oh, _it’s_ _war._

 

Gabriel, helpful as ever, agrees to zap him and Sam back in time to avoid putting too much strain on Cas. Before they go, he gives them a massive long lecture about keeping under the radar of any angels poking around. They’ve gotta keep their Grace turned inward and bound tightly, or the angels will _know_. 

 

If Gabriel wasn’t such a chicken when it comes to outright confrontation, Dean figures they’d have this one in the bag, but since Gabriel’s a giant hippie _girl_ , it’s just him, Sam and Cas, who doesn’t look too hot once he throws himself back through thirty years of time on less than optimal power. Poor guy’s completely wiped, so they set him up in a motel room for the day and hope he manages to collect himself in time for the final show down that’s bound to happen sooner rather than later. 

 

When they’re face to face with their mom, Dean realizes that Sammy’s going to be a whole lot of unhelpful. He can’t tear his eyes offa her and his emotions are going haywire. More than once, Dean sees the nub of a wing threaten to escape the confines of his soul and he has to divert the conversation on to more pertinent things. Like keeping his young parents from being smote. 

 

Still, he can’t help but think this is the perfect opportunity to ask their mom some questions. Like, what she knows, for one, and _how_ she knows, for another.

 

He goes for subtly at first, because they’re not trying to screw up the past, just protect it. Mary is being awfully reticent about anything and everything. She tries to kick them out so Sam blurts out the truth, “You and John are in danger.”

 

Dean hedges around the issue a bit more, judging his mother’s reactions, but if she’s pretending not to know anything, she’s an awful good actress. Sam gets fed up and blurts out the word ‘angel’ and when they’re met with nothing but scathing disbelief, they’re stumped. 

 

_Okay, either we were totally wrong or whatever it is hasn’t happened yet._

 

Sam tries to hide his concern, but there’s no hiding anything from Dean these days. _I dunno, Dean. It’s weird. Maybe we’re the ones that clue her in? Or...no way it was Dad the whole time. Just...no way._

 

_He_ was _a pretty big dick,_ Dean tries to joke to lighten the solemn mood. He realizes Mary is giving them both strange looks for their prolonged silence so he spews out the beginnings of a plan for their safety. 

 

Except that John is missing. And Dean has a sudden, horrible feeling that it’s not for anything good. 

 

The problem with being half-angel, Dean reflects as he’s getting the shit kicked out of him by one small female angel, is that there’s no way of knowing how an angel banishing sigil is going to affect them...which means they’re stuck with nothing but their own two fists, one measly angel-killing blade courtesy of Cas, and a lot of sheer, dumb, luck. 

 

Anna tosses them around like they’re rag dolls. Dean and Sam are faring a bit better than they normally would, what with the Grace-enhanced strength and all, but it’s got nothing on Anna’sunfettered power, and keeping their wings and Grace locked down is half the damn battle. They’re both distracted and Dean only thanks...well...not God, because God’s an asshole, but _some_ deity, that Anna is too focused on killing either Mary or John to notice when translucent feathers peek from between Sam’s shoulder blades and Dean has to tackle him behind a car to keep him from giving it all away. 

 

_Sam! Get yourself under control, man!_

 

Sam breathes heavily and sweat peppers his forehead. Dean leaves him to meditate and peeks around the corner of the tire-less vehicle just in time to see his mother get thrown onto yet another car. He winces. “Castiel, man, any time now would be great!” he prays as quietly as he can. 

 

Anna still hears him. She glowers at him from the middle of the auto-garage-cum-battlefield and takes an aborted step towards him, white wings flared dangerously and trailing pearlescent afterimages with each twitch of a feather. Dean sees Castiel flutter to a halt perhaps half a second before she does and by then it’s too late. 

 

“Go!” Cas shouts. “I’ll hold her off!” And then he tackles Anna into thin air in a move that would turn most pro-wrestlers green with envy. They vanish with a mighty flap of Cas’s wings and Dean is up and around the car like a shot. 

 

“Car!” Dean shouts at a dumbfounded John. “Get the Impala, now!” 

 

His dad jerks in acknowledgement as something in Dean’s commanding tone reaches him, because he turns on his heel and bolts for the garage entrance. Dean runs for his mother, flinging her arm around his shoulder and waits just long enough to see Sam scoop up Cas’s angel sword and lope after them before making a beeline for their escape route. 

 

It’s all business until they’re safe and secure in the car in the most bizarre family road trip of his life. Dean feels like he should be five years old, Sammy still in diapers in a car-seat, as his parents argue in the front seats. It’s completely surreal and he can tell Sam is struggling with keeping a grip on everything because he’s gaping from the back seat and his mind keeps slipping thoughts into their radio frequency, things like: _Mom’s so amazing. Wow, Dad is keeping it together really well. I can’t believe this. This is weird. Mom, Dad, me, Dean, all together._

 

Dean just turns his head and stares out the window. He lets Sammy bask in the unreality of their situation for a bit longer. The kid could use some family time. He never got to know their mother before she died, so every second he gets to spend admiring her is a second well spent. Even at the expense of all else, Dean is glad that Sam’s had this opportunity to meet the real John and Mary Winchester and not just Mary’s ghost and the shell of a man their dad became after she died. 

 

At the house, John is raring to go. Sam gives him the angel banishing sigils and tells him what to do and to only use them if he and Dean can no longer fight. He doesn’t mention anything about him and Dean being Nephilim. They still haven’t questioned Mary about that one, so Dean shoulders the responsibility and while Sam is having a heart to heart with Dad - one that he desperately needs - Dean starts making casual conversation. 

 

“So, angels. Did you know that when they Fall, they get reborn as humans without any memories? Except they sometimes have these powers…”

 

Mary gives him a strange look as she carefully pours a circle of holy oil on the floor. “Is this relevant?”

 

Dean shrugs. “The one that’s after us, Anna? She Fell, but she got her Grace back so now she’s all angelfied again. But before, when she didn’t know who she was, she would hear the voices of the angels. She thought she was crazy.” He waits for a reaction, any kind of reaction, but he gets nothing but polite interest. Not even a tell. Nothing that screams ‘I’m hiding a huge angelic secret’. 

 

It was honestly a long shot, thinking she was Fallen. It’s more likely she was possessed - but _when?_ It would have had to have been consensual, so either it hasn’t happened yet, or his mother has an incredible poker face. 

 

Mary stands up slowly, setting the empty jar of holy oil on the table next to her. “Okay, that’s fascinating but why does she want me dead?” 

 

Dean bites his lip and peers at her, squinting. There’s absolutely nothing holy about her, except for the fact that she has a bright soul, marred only slightly by the faint smudge of sulfuric darkness that marks her deal with Azazel. If she’s currently possessed, he can’t tell.

 

She narrows her eyes at him. “Okay, what? What is it?”

 

“You...never heard any voices in your head? Or how about weird dreams? Did you know about angels before all’a this?”

 

Mary stares at him like she thinks he’s insane. “Are you saying I’m a fallen angel? _That’s_ why she wants me dead? That’s insane. I’m not. I’m a hunter, I know when something’s off and trust me, I’m one hundred percent human.”

 

She isn’t lying. He gets that. Her emotions are radiating nothing but solid belief and determination. She _can’t_ be possessed or Fallen. It hasn’t happened yet, that’s the only explanation. This…this experience must have been the catalyst. Talk about a chicken and egg scenario. “That… No…” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. “Look, you’re absolutely sure, right? Not even a whisper? No one’s been asking you if you’ll help them out with something?”

 

“Like a deal?” she demands, eyes narrowing, before flickering off to the side. He remembers her deal with Azazel and knows that’s why she suddenly radiates guilt mixed with stubborn determination. Her chin comes up with a firm tilt and her catch his again, hard. “I’m a Hunter, not an idiot. I know when a supernatural creature is trying to trick someone into a deal.”

 

Dean frowns and rubs his chin. The idea is absurd, but… “Just to be sure, John hasn’t been acting funny, has he? Like, does he strike you as the fallen angel type?”

 

Mary marches over to him and jabs a finger at his chest. “You listen here, _Dean_. You tell me exactly what’s going on _right_ now or I walk out that door.” She shows him her shoulder, taking a single aborted step towards the door. 

 

“Sam and I are Nephilim,” Dean blurts out. Quickly, he glances around to make sure there aren’t any angels lurking in corners they’re not supposed to be in. He doesn’t see anything, but then again, they could be invisible and hiding their presence very, _very_ well. (He’s counting on the fact that most angels have the subtlety of a ten-ton rhinoceros in a china shop).When Mary’s eyes widen and she opens her mouth to demand more answers he shushes her. “ _Don’t_ say it out loud again, okay? It’s a secret. If the angels find out, we’re screwed, okay?” He runs a hand through his hair in a restless fit, because his wings are locked away tightly and he finds its hard to express himself now, without them there to make gestures. 

 

Mary glances around quickly as well before leaning close. “Okay,” she whispers. “Say I believe you, _what_ does that have to do with John and I?”

 

Dean stares at her grimly. “Because...I’m your son.”

 

She steps back. “...What?”

 

“I’m your son,” he repeats, and that’s just a bit of phlegm in his throat that has nothing to do with sentimentality whatsoever. He’s also keeping his voice soft for strategic purposes only. “Sorry. Don’t know how else to say it.” He clears his throat. The phlegm is stubborn. “We’re from the year 2010. Another angel - friendlier...sort of - zapped us back here.”

 

Mary shakes her head. Her eyes reflect the light with a glossy sheen that causes something to heat painfully in Dean’s chest. “You can’t expect me to believe that.”

 

His lips quirk. Oh, sure, believe the bit about angels and Nephilim, but when he pulls out the _Back to the Future_ card, it’s all disbelief and skepticism. Without mentioning the word Nephilim again, he lines up the facts: their names, the truth, all the little quirks about her that he can remember, like tomato-rice soup and ‘Hey, Jude’. She starts to cry and shake her head more fiercely, repeats ‘no, I don’t believe it’, and it isn’t until she talks about raising her kids to be hunters, something he knows she’d sworn never to do, that he gets it. 

 

“No. It wasn’t you, you didn’t do it.” He’s abandoned the line of questioning about angels. Why does it matter if it’s her or John? Or if she remembers? The why isn’t important anymore, only what is and what’s going to happen. And she’s crying - he can’t stand it. 

 

He confesses about her death, the yellow-eyed demon, everything. Tries to tell her that on November 2nd, 1983, she needs to take Sam and _run._ Run and don’t look back. 

 

“That’s not good enough, Dean,” Sammy interrupts solemnly, having snuck his way in through the doorway. In Dean’s head, he asks, _Did you find out? Dad knows nothing._

 

Dean shakes his head. “No,” he mutters. “Nothing.”

 

Mary lowers her hands from her eyes as her head whips between them. “What…?”

 

“Is it you?” Sam demands desperately. “Are you the—”

 

Dean cuts him off with a frantic shake of his head. _Dude, not out loud. Who knows who could be listening?_

 

Sam frowns at him. _Do you think they overheard anything important?_ The odor of rotten fruit drifts gently between them.   
  
Dean shrugs. _I dunno, but we gotta be careful. I’ve said too much as it is..._

 

Mary’s not stupid. She’s already put two and two together and knows what they’re asking. Her eyes narrow and her lips purse and despite the red-rimmed puffiness, she looks like a warrior princess. “I’m not one of...them. Neither is John. And neither of us has been talking to angels. I think I’d have noticed that.”

 

She’s so adamant about it that he and Sam have nothing more to say. It has to be one of them, though, because Dean knows that Mary and John Winchester are his and Sam’s parents. They’re not adopted, and his mom loved his dad way too much to ever cheat. Ever.

 

_Maybe...maybe they don’t remember until later?_ Sam postulates. 

 

_Yeah, but then what about the binding ritual? That’s something you gotta prepare for. Finding out late in the game doesn’t leave a lotta room for that. It’s gotta happen soon. Real soon, or none of this makes any sense._

 

Sam shrugs. Mary stares intently at them, eyes darting between them, until, after a moment of silence, she says, “Are you...speaking to one another? Telepathically?”

 

“Guilty,” mutters Dean, and makes another shushing motion. 

 

Mary merely frowns and glances down her body, then back up to Dean. He sees her hand twitch towards her stomach and there’s something vey telling about the motion but it’s eluding him. 

 

“I think...I think there’s a solution to all of this...everything,” Sam ventures after a moment. He sounds broken. The scent of his emotions tell Dean he’s struggling internally. “Leave Dad. When this is all over, walk away... You got to leave John.”

 

Dean stares. His mind goes blank for maybe a second or two as it tries to wrap around the...idea. “So we’re never born.” Sam’s plan is...suicidal. And yet, at the same time...it’s the best damn solution they’ve got. Dean locks away any momentary panic over the thought, stuffs it into the back of his mind and refuses to dwell on it. Even if his emotions don’t quite match, he puts on his best game face and declares, “He’s right.”

 

Mary’s hand clutches at the bottom of her shirt, near her stomach. Her fingers twist in the fabric nervously. “I...I can’t.” 

 

Dean’s all ready to convince her, because let’s face it, if he and Sam never exist, there will be no one to start the Apocalypse. If Mary leaves John, there will be no perfect vessels. The angels will have to start all over again and it could take hundreds of years before new vessels are born at the right time. But his mother’s defensive motions are nagging at him. It reminds him of a wounded victim trying to protect their most vulnerable points. 

 

Sam gets it before he does. “It’s 1978,” he states flatly, eyes sliding over to Dean. If his wings weren’t folded away tight, they’d be slumped in defeat, trailing through the floor. “It’s too late, isn’t it?”

 

Mary gives them a weak smile through the last glittering vestiges of her tears. “Yeah. I’m...I’m already pregnant.”

 

Today has been nothing but shock after shock. Dean’s not sure his heart can take it. It stutters in his chest sharply, like a burst of electricity. He can’t get over the fact that right now there’s a tiny him inside his mother while he stands out here, fully grown. It’s mind boggling. And kind of awesome. But mostly just plain weird. He’s in _there_...and out here. Why hasn’t the universe imploded yet? 

 

_Dude…_ Sam is thinking absently. His tone is screaming ‘what the fuck’. 

 

_Tell me about it,_ Dean sends. 

 

Then John interrupts them with the news that the sigils are gone...and all hell breaks loose. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work is still crazy. Oh, and I moved. Fun times.   
> On a plus note, I have the next chapter pretty much finalised, since this is kind of a two-part arc here. And the next chapter is a doozy. Mind, this chapter wasn't easy either. Hopefully it meets expectations. Enjoy!


	28. Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: S05E13 - The Song Remains The Same

_Father_

*

“Well, I’d say this conversation is long overdue, wouldn’t you?” Michael greets. Somehow, impossibly, he’s wearing John Winchester’s body like an Armani suit. 

 

Dean stands frozen. Anna is dead, Uriel is gone, his mother is unconscious on the ground, and Sam is bleeding out against the floor because the red-headed bitch stabbed him. He’s not dead yet, but Dean can only wonder if it’s a matter of time. How much damage they can take before they’re dead? 

 

This is _not_ how this rescue attempt was supposed to go. God only knows where poor Cas ended up. Dean can only pray he isn’t too badly hurt and can find his own way back. 

 

He points a finger at Sam, because when push comes to shove, the first impulse he has is to fix Sammy. Always. Michael gets it, because he nods and strolls over like he’s got all day. Sam groans and shuts his eyes. 

 

Finally, Dean finds his voice. “How did you…?”

 

Michael pulls his fingers away from Sam’s forehead and looks at them both solemnly from their father’s eyes. It’s a little creepy seeing the three sets of wings bursting from his dad’s back like solar flares and starbursts. They’re golden, like the sun, and there’s no doubt that Michael is the strongest Archangel; he isn’t even trying to repress his Grace but it’s like standing too close to bonfire. 

 

“Know, first of all, that this talk is between just the three of us,” Michael begins, ignoring Dean’s first question like a typical angel. “You also need to know that I am not the Michael of this time, but of many years in the future. Long after the Apocalypse,” he adds with a piercing look. 

 

Dean gets it immediately, because he can feel those eyes right down to the very core of his being, where his Grace lies wrapped up tight and pretending to be nothing but soul. “Then you know. About us.”

 

“Yes. There is no need to hide.”

 

With an exhale of relief, Dean lets the pressure go and his Grace comes spilling out like the spurt of a geyser. His wings burst from his back and arch up and out, stretching to the tips, each feather bright and straining. Strangely, in the light of Michael’s solar Grace, his wings appear less of a pearly gray and more of a radiant creme. 

 

From the blood-stained floor, Sam pulls himself upright before doing the same. His wings are a striking contrast to Dean’s, but especially to Michael’s. They swallow the light, each feather like a hungry, gaping maw that gobbles it down and turns it inside out so the shine becomes darker than pitch. “If you’re the Michael from after the Apocalypse, then you know how it ends.”

 

Dean’s wings flare wide. Sonnovabitch! This bastard survived the Apocalypse! He knows how it all goes down and the fact that he’s standing before them so calmly doesn’t fill Dean with too much confidence. Either they succeeded in putting the Devil back, in which case, shouldn’t Michael be feeling jilted? Or Michael got his way, somehow, and he won the war. 

 

“Is the Earth still standing?” Dean blurts out. “How many people died?”

 

Michael shakes his head once, sharply. “No. I will not answer any questions of your future. What will happen will happen as it already has. I am only here to shed light on your past.”

 

“Shed light,” Sam repeats. 

 

Michael glances down at Mary, sprawled on the floor in a silent heap. His eyes linger on her mid-section, like he’s seeking the tiny spark that will become Dean in a few more months. “Yes,” he murmurs, “you need to know the truth. It will be vital that you know.”

 

Sam’s eyes narrow in thought. _Dean, I can’t tell what his game is here._

 

Dean keeps his wings from shuffling nervously. _Awesome. I’m fresh outta revelations._

 

Michael chuckles. “My ‘game’ is the best possible outcome for everyone involved.” He holds up a hand before either Dean or Sam can explode with indignation and denials. “The me of this past, and the me that exists in your present do _not_ feel the same way, that is true. You would be correct to distrust my words if I were that Michael.” He looks past them, eyes a little unfocused. “At the time, I thought I had to do my duty, be the good son. My Father had a plan and I had to follow it.” Sorrow crosses his face, but it’s not echoed by any kind of emotional output, so Dean has to rely solely on his own ability to read body language. “You two showed me that God’s plan was never set in stone. Plans can change. After the Apocalypse ended, I knew what I had to do, so I travelled back in time and I planted the seeds of change.” Michael’s lips stretch in a secret grin, like he’s got his own private joke that neither Dean nor Sam are party to. 

 

_Is he saying what I think he’s saying?_ Sam thinks in disbelief. _Do we actually do it? Stop the Apocalypse? Or does it happen, but differently?_

 

“Like I said, I will reveal no more than that. You just need to understand where you come from,” Michael interrupts Sam’s mental dialogue. Dean can’t figure out how he’s doing it, if even Gabriel can’t hear them when they’re on their own private frequency. Or maybe Michael’s just that badass. And powerful. Jesus. 

 

“And where do we come from, then?” Dean snaps. He folds his arms tightly, wings half-spread and ready to snap out at a moment’s notice.

 

“Me,” Michael replies, flooring them. 

 

Sam’s shock hits him like crackling lightning and Dean can only imagine his is doing the same. “What?” he yelps, wings shuddering to get the uncomfortable zinging off his feathers. _WHAT?_ his mind reverberates loudly, jamming their radio frequency with his exclamation.

 

“How are you Nephilim when both John and Mary Winchester are human?” Michael asks them, clearly rhetorical. He paces a few steps and bends down to place a hand gently on Mary’s abdomen. “Simple. Because of me.” He strokes it once, carefully, then stands. Dean mouths ‘what the hell’ to his brother. Sam shrugs. “You see, the Winchester and Campbell bloodlines are special, stretching back to Cain and Abel. One carries the ability to harbor myself,” he gestures to the body of John that he’s currently wearing, then switches to Mary, “the other, my brother Lucifer. But bloodlines aside, they are both human.”

 

Dean steps forward, fists clenching. He doesn’t get what Michael’s saying, but somehow he did _something_ that screwed him and Sam over. “What did you do?” _You son of a bitch, what did you_ do _?_ His mind echoes furiously. Sam’s wing stretches out in a aborted gesture of restraint. Dean stops on his own, but glares death at Michael. 

 

Michael raises his eyebrows. He fills his voice with the taunting lilt of sarcasm. “Is that any way to talk to your father, Dean?”

 

Dean can’t breathe. Iron bands wrap around his chest and squeeze until he steps back and away. “Wh-what?” he manages to croak. 

 

“What?” Sam repeats more aggressively. The ozone, lightning-sharp crackle of his shock is bleeding into hot iron and sulfur. In stark contrast to that is the single icy lick of fear that sweeps a line between Dean’s shoulder blades. He shudders, feathers fluffing. He feels woozy and distant, like he’s having a nightmare and none of this is real. 

 

Michael actually smiles happily, like this is a fucking Sunday brunch and they’ve all gathered merrily around the table to break bread and have a laugh. Guy’s got more mood swings than a pregnant woman. “You are both my sons, after a fashion. I have already possessed John Winchester once before this moment, at the time of your conception, Dean.” His finger points ominously. “And my past self will possess him once more, a few years from now, when it is Sam’s time. The Grace you have been blessed with grew from my own Grace. With Gabriel’s help, you will become powerful Nephilim.” 

 

“Then...Dad…” Sam stutters. 

 

“John Winchester is still your biological father. I merely donated the angelic half.”

 

Dean reaches up a shaky hand to press against his temple, because he’s still not convinced this isn’t all a dream. A very, very messed up dream. “Okay,” he breathes. “Okay, so…”

 

Michael brightens and his eyes widen quickly. “Oh yes! I have a gift for you!”

 

“A gift,” Dean parrots. He can’t help it, Michael - and no way in the nine circles of Hell is he calling the guy ‘Dad’ - just keeps spewing complete nonsense. _Sonnova--Sam, pinch me, I think I’m dreaming._

 

Sam shoots him a pained look. _Then we’re_ both _dreaming, Dean, and I don’t think it works like that._

 

Michael doesn’t respond to this latest exchange because he’s busy laying out two pristine, silver angel blades on the newly righted table. He steps back and nods his head at the table. “I had these specially forged for you two. They’re much more powerful than a Seraph’s blade, but as you were born of my Grace, you will have no problem wielding them to their full potential.” He appears strangely proud of this and Dean is thrown for a loop. With the way Michael had gone on before, he’d imagined that this had all been some elaborate plan and that Michael had only done what he had out of some twisted sense of necessity, but that he otherwise felt no kind of...paternal obligation towards him and Sam. Now...now he isn’t so sure. 

 

Could… does Michael possibly... _care_ about them? The idea is too atypical to entertain for long. Michael is like the leader of the dick brigade. He’s the one who’d started this whole mess—had wanted to stage an epic battle to destroy half the world and kill his own brother. 

 

Yeah. _Had wanted,_ his mind supplies. But this is future-Michael. A Michael who says he’s seen the error of his ways, or some bullshit. Dean’s not totally convinced. There’s no way he just turned around and did a complete 180 after going through all that trouble to jumpstart the End of Days. 

 

The Archangel cocks his head thoughtfully. “Do you know how to bond with a blade?”

 

Their silence speaks for itself, but Dean can feel that Sam’s itching to get his hands on one of the blades. His curiosity is like a nervous twitch in Dean’s feathers. He’s vibrating in place with the desire to reach out. Dean rolls his eyes. “Jeez, Sammy, contain yourself.”

 

“Oh, go ahead!” Michael refutes, still all Brady Bunch and Happy Days. “They’re yours, after all.”

 

This is so beyond the pale. There are no words really for the surreality of this moment. The Archangel Michael popping into the past to give them _presents_ like they’re little kids waiting for Daddy to come home with toys to play with. Sam clearly doesn’t care, because he snatches the closest sword off the table with hungry fingers and dusts a loving caress along its length. With far more restraint, Dean picks up the other one. 

 

“Direct your Grace to the sword. They have yet to bond to any Grace, so they will bond to yours eagerly. Once you have done so, you may summon them at will. Please try not to lose them.” Michael’s tone is disturbingly admonishing. Like he’s lecturing two unruly children. 

 

Dean doesn’t like this ongoing comparison. They are not _children_ and they certainly didn’t ask for Michael the goddamn Archangel to come along and start trying to play house. Then again, Sammy seems more than happy to go along with it so long as he gets a shiny angel sword out of the deal. 

 

“Huh,” says Sam, right as he twists his wrist and the sword vanishes. “Cool.”

 

Dean stares down at the blade he’s holding. Yeah, okay, maybe they are just a little bit awesome. “Can these kill anyone?”

 

“You want to know if they can kill Lucifer,” Michael guesses. “Potentially, they could.”

 

Dean’s head jerks up so fast he gets whiplash. “You’re just handing us the Holy version of the Colt? Now I know something rotten in the state of Denmark, because no way do you just _hand over_ the weapons to kill the Devil.”

 

Michael’s gaze is hooded and unreadable. He keeps his emotions to himself, and his wings don’t really give away much. All three pairs of them. “They are precisely what I say they are. I will warn you, however; Lucifer has many centuries of guile and skill on you. You are both little more than children, you would not stand a chance against him.” He stretches his wings and rolls his shoulders. “Now, my time here is finished. I’ve said what I wished to say and given you what I came to give you. I will return you both, and Castiel, to your proper time. Use the knowledge and gifts I have given you wisely.”

 

Dean lifts the sword in his hand in a half-hearted effort to ward off Michael’s approach, but his heart isn’t in it. His mind is swirling with confusion and uncertainty. All his carefully constructed beliefs are crumbling and turning inside-out. Michael the Archangel is responsible for their birth. Dean is _Michael’s_ Nephil son. 

 

The last thing he sees are two fingers heading for his forehead, and then he’s blinking the light away from his eyes as it streams through Bobby’s front windows. Sam looks around next to him and then two seconds later, Cas, his trench coat torn and stained with blood, topples out of thin air. 

 

“Whoa!” Dean catches him with both his left wing and his arm. 

 

Cas groans. “Dean...Anna...she…”

 

“Yeah,” Dean interrupts. “We know. She overpowered you. Don’t worry, it’s over. The past is saved. You did good, Kemosabe.”

 

“Oh, good.” 

 

Dean, with the help of his wing, manages to lower Cas to the couch in Bobby’s sitting room. He tucks the guy’s wings close to his body and smooths down his coat. Cas looks like he’s been through the ringer. “You crazy son of a bitch,” he mutters with affection. 

 

“We should give Cas back his sword,” Sam ventures. 

 

Thankfully, their duffle bags, packed and everything, seem to have travelled with them. Guess Michael’s not the most powerful Archangel just for show. 

 

“And then you can explain how the hell you got your hands on that Archangel blade, nephew-dearest.”

 

Dean turns, his new sword still clutched in one hand. Gabriel’s brows are drawn and he doesn’t look happy. 

 

“Awesome,” he sighs. 

 

Gabriel snaps himself a comfy, throne-like chair, settles down imperiously and manages to peer down his nose while looking up at them. “Yeah, start talking, bucko.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so you all saw that coming. I know some of you were all geared up for something more spectacular, but I'm afraid I have a soft spot for cliches XD


	29. Inconceivable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: S05E13 - Post-The Song Remains the Same

_Inconceivable_

*

It’s Gabriel’s new favorite word: inconceivable. Dean thinks he’s quoting _The Princess Bride_ because he’s deflecting, but the sentiment behind the quote is still real enough. Gabriel just can’t comprehend what his older brother has done. 

 

He paces Bobby’s floor like a predator circling prey. The looks he gives Dean certainly make him _feel_ like prey. They’re calculating and sharp and there’s a wild glint in his eye that sometimes flares with Grace. It chills Dean to the bone, because until now, Gabriel’s been cool as a cucumber about everything - he’s never once lost control of his Grace. Until now. Sam’s own worry is too sweet-rotten, but Dean shouldn’t complain because they all taste like that. 

 

“There’s no way. Just no way. It’s inconceivable! Utterly preposterous!” Gabriel rants to himself. He whirls on the Winchesters, expression so very humanly broken. “Michael was so outspoken against the Nephilim the first time! He gave the order to destroy them all! Of all the things he could do - of all the ways he could change...never this! Never!”

 

A dangerous kind of plan is unfolding behind his eyes. “I need to touch it. I need to _check._ ”

 

Sam steps behind Dean, like he can hide his enormous Sasquatch frame behind Dean’s trim, smokin’ bod. Dean still angles his body so it covers as much of Sam’s as possible. “Hell _no_ ,” he snaps. “No more soul touching.”

 

“No, no, not your soul. Your _Grace._ I need to _feel_ it.”

 

Even Cas looks highly uncomfortable now and makes an aborted stopping motion. He sidles up to Dean and puts on his stubborn face. “Gabriel, I do not think that will be necessary.”

 

Gabriel growls. “You don’t understand Castiel. You’re too young! There’s no way Michael made them! It’s _Michael_! He never strays from God’s Word! He wouldn’t _make_ Nephilim, he’d destroy them! And he certainly wouldn’t give them swords!” 

 

“He had six wings, golden. He possessed our dad, John. Anna and Uriel called him Michael. What more proof do you want?” Sam demands, still behind Dean. 

 

“I believe them,” Castiel growls. His tone is daring Gabriel to challenge the truth, to tell him that Dean and Sam are lying. Cas is a pretty awesome guy, for an angel. He’s damn loyal and his faith in Dean...Dean tries not to think about that most of the time. It makes his chest uncomfortably tight and his wings itch and flare with heat. 

 

“Have you ever _met_ Michael?” Gabriel shouts, waving his arms and sparking Grace from his eyes like his body contains nothing but lightning and it’s shining through every available crack. “He doesn’t do rebellion! And he most certainly doesn’t run off and pop out a coupla abominations, then give them _presents_!”

 

“Hey!” Sammy.  
  
“Watch it!” Dean. 

 

Castiel raises his chin. “I rebelled. I still have faith, and I still believe in God’s plan, but I also believe in humanity. In Dean, and Sam. And Bobby Singer. If Dean can show me this, he can also show Michael.”

 

That pressure in Dean’s chest is back, as is the rolling heat on his feathers. And it’s not a normal kind of heat, it’s not one of Sammy’s annoying emotional discharges. It’s… Dean shakes his feathers and pulls his wings in tighter. 

 

Sam steps out from behind Dean and he’s got his stubborn, I’m-right-you’re-wrong tilt to his brows and the line of his jaw. “That’s what he _said._ That we showed him that plans can change, that God’s plan could change. He’s not lost his faith in God, and I don’t think it’s really rebellion if he’s still doing God’s will! We must have shown him there was another way.”

 

“ _Nephilim_ ,” Gabriel grinds out in an echoing swell, like that’s the answer to everything. “That’s like the equivalent of running off with a hooker and knocking her up! Michael is the perfect son, the perfect soldier. He threw down Lucifer when he rebelled and barely even blinked, and now you’re trying to tell me he’s gone native?”

 

“People change, so can angels. Galileo over here’s proof enough of that.” Bobby jerks his thumb at Cas, whose brows crease in that way they do when he tries to work out the reference. 

 

“Inconceivable,” Gabriel repeats flatly. “It’s Michael. End of.”

 

Dean rolls his eyes. He doesn’t like the concept any more than Gabriel apparently does, but he’s not _this_ much in denial. “Okay, buddy, I exist, Sam exists, we’re Nephilim, and as far as we can tell, neither Mary nor John were fallen angels, so this is the only explanation that works. Plus, archangel blades.” He twists his hand as he reaches out with his Grace and the blade falls into his grip like it had never left. “Explain _that_.” 

 

Gabriel suddenly looks broken. “How...what...he just...gave them to you?”

 

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, he just said ‘I have a gift for you’, acted all excited, and put them on the table.”

 

“A _gift_?” Gabriel squeaks. “He used that exact word? A _gift_?”

 

“Yes…” Sam exchanges a look with Dean. 

 

“A _gift_ ,” Gabriel repeats like it’s going out of style. 

 

“And then he gave us instructions on how to bond with them and sent us back here,” Sam adds, crossing his arms and flicking a wing in annoyance. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

 

Gabriel stares at them. He squints and cocks his head right and left and stares at the sword in Dean’s hand, then back at Dean, Sam, and even Castiel. He puts a hand to his head and shuts his eyes. “It’s like the Twilight Zone. That’s what this is. I’ve stepped into the Twilight Zone!”

 

Cas’s wings fluff in confusion, and the soft trail of heat that tingles at Dean’s feathers makes him twitch. “What is the Twilight Zone and how do you know you have entered it?”

 

It’s too much. Dean can’t contain himself. Even Bobby thinks it’s funny, snickering away into his beer. Hell, eventually even _Gabriel_ cracks a smile. “Oh, Cassie, baby, you’re too cute!”

 

And somehow Cas’s lack of pop culture references diffuses all the tension and saves the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a lot of people wanted to see Gabriel's reaction. Here it is :D


	30. Loop-di-Loop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: Pre-S05E14 - My Bloody Valentine

_Loop-di-loop_

*

So, fighting with swords like in a duel? Harder than it looks. Dean’s been hacking away at things like a rabid monkey with a club (Gabriel’s words, not his) for all his life and it’s served him well so far. But apparently having your own angel sword means you gotta know how to wield it _gracefully_ , lest he bring shame to the House of Michael. 

 

Dean’s pretty sure Gabriel made that rule up, because the last he checked there was no House of Michael, since they’re Michael’s first ‘kids’. (Which he tries not to think about. At all.) Still, if that’s the way his newly discovered ‘uncle’ wants to deal with the revelation that Dean and Sam are, for all intents and purposes, his older brother’s kids (and, isn’t that the kicker, that Gabriel is _actually_ his uncle), then Dean’s not gonna argue the point. It keeps Gabriel focused on something useful instead of, say, rocking in a corner muttering about impossibilities. He also learns very, very quickly that getting cut with an angel blade is no walk in the park. It’s like being stabbed with a red-hot poker dipped in hot sauce which burns for ages afterwards.

 

Cas is party to these lessons. For a younger Seraph, apparently he’s pretty battle savvy, as he’s taken out angels far more powerful than himself before. Who knew Castiel was such an angelic badass? So Gabriel sticks him behind a podium, shines a spotlight on him and makes him lecture using a blackboard and brightly colored chalk. Dean spends the majority of this time trying not to laugh at Cas’s expression up on the podium, and the rest of it actually laughing at Sam, who has the gall to takes _notes_ like he’s back at school. He’s got papers with diagrams of X’s and O’s, arrows and scribbled words like ‘defense’ and ‘offense’. Dean’s more tactile, so he learns through trial and error. You know, the _normal_ way.

 

No one likes to bring up the pink elephant in the room: Michael. Bobby is content to roll around in his wheelchair and laugh at Dean’s pathetic attempts at sword fighting with style, Cas seems both incapable of looking him in the eye and staring unblinkingly for far longer than normal when he thinks Dean’s not aware, and Sam...Sam is working on some secret project where he scribbles in a diary late at night and closes himself off. That last one soon has Dean fed up, so he starts back up on the name calling.

 

“Hey, Bridget Jones, you want some pie? I’m going out to get some.”

 

Sam gives him the finger. When Dean gets back an hour later from a 24-hour diner that serves a selection of pies, Sam’s still sitting at the kitchen table with the light on. It’s 2am, only he seems to have roused Bobby from his slumber. Dean rather generously cuts Bobby a slice of pie because the dude looks like he’s about to start shooting people up the ass, and pie always makes everything better. Also present is Cas, who stands in the corner of the room like a statue and then there’s Gabriel, who’s conjured himself another ridiculous chair. 

 

“Good, you’re back,” Sam greets him without even looking. “Okay, that’s everyone. So, we need a plan to get rid of the Devil, and Gabriel’s ready to spill.”

 

Dean shoves a large bite of cherry pie into his mouth. Friggin’ _finally_. 

 

Gabriel takes over. “So, Lucy raised Death a while back, right? And you knifed War some time ago and managed to get hold of his bling.” Sam reaches out and plops War’s ring in the middle of the table when Gabriel gestures. “Shiny, and also serves more than one purpose,” Gabriel compliments. Somehow he’s managed to mojo himself a piece of Dean’s pie and he starts separating the filling from the crust. “See, the Horsemen’s rings serve as a kind of key. The key to opening the cage. You get all four rings, say a spell and presto! The door is open. That’s the easy part. The hard part is getting Lucy to jump in. Which, you know, next to impossible. He’s not gonna just walk up to the edge and let you push him over.” He uses a piece of crust to scoop up enough filling to cover the dough and eats it with relish. “ _But_ , that was before you went and popped out great big feather dusters and definitely before Mikey went off the reservation and gifted you with your own fancy-shmancy Archangel-killing blades. So maybe you feather-brained idiots have a chance here.” He licks a bit of sticky cherry filling off his fingers with an obscene slurp and a frown. 

 

Sam pulls a face, because Gabriel’s table manners are a lot like Dean’s - that is to say, he’s got none. It’s one of those few things they have in common. 

 

“Well that sounds fun,” is Bobby’s irritated and sarcastic input. “Boy, I have a feelin’ we’ll be up all night. Put the coffee on. Us humans need caffeine to function with less than two hours sleep.”

 

Dean takes his pie with him to the coffee machine, while Sam flips open his secret diary and pushes it towards the middle of the table. “You know, I’ve been thinking about our confrontation with Michael in the past. I’ve been trying to plot the time loop he created - cause and effect and how much of what happened is due to us--”

 

“Oh believe me, the butterfly that flapped its wings and caused a hurricane? That’s you two,” Gabriel interjects sarcastically. Dean nearly flicks a lump of sticky cherry at his head.

 

Sam clears his throat loudly. “ _Okay_. Well whatever happens causes Michael to go back in time and, um…you know. But we have a way of ending this!” 

 

“Okay, Churchill, lay it on us,” Bobby grunts. His nose follows the perfect, bitter tang of coffee as it begins to trickle through the filter. 

 

“Well, first of all, there’s the fact that Michael is responsible for our, well, existence,” Sam begins awkwardly.

 

“He’s your _Daddy_ ,” Gabriel announces unhelpfully. It sounds more than wrong coming out of Gabriel’s mouth. There’s still that cadence of disbelief that lingers in his tone. 

 

Dean grunts. “Like Hell.”

 

Sam coughs. “Right. Anyway, so, my point is, he planned this. Our existence... _after_ the Apocalypse. He also as much as admitted that we were right and he was wrong the whole time he was gunning for the End of Days. Which means that somewhere along the line, he had a change of heart.” Sam tilts his head at Gabriel, who’s studiously mixing his filling and crust together but no longer eating any of it. “I doubt he actually _wants_ to kill Lucifer any more than Gabriel does, which means our plan to stuff him back in the cage has a high percentage of working.” He looks around, a glint of fire in his eye, wings vibrating with purpose. “I think that we win, and we win because Michael went back and gave us the tools to win.” With a deft flick of his wrist, he summons his blade where it glints sharply under the steady hum of Bobby’s aged bulbs. “It’s a bit of a paradox.” 

 

“Whatever works, dude.”

 

“Balls!” Bobby exclaims, which Dean thinks is his way of agreeing to disagree, but then he realizes the coffee machine is spluttering and threatening to fail on them. Bobby wheels himself over quickly and reaches up to give it a good bash on the side. “Damn piece of technological _crap_.” They all stare. “What? Paradox or not, if it means we get outta this alive, I don’t give a shit _how_ it works, just that it does.”

 

Dean jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “I agree with the grumpy old man in the wheelchair.”

 

“I _will_ shoot you, boy!” Bobby threatens with a coffee mug. 

 

“You’re not worried about messing it up?” asks Sam, ignoring the byplay. He flips to another page in his “diary” and Dean kids not...he’s drawn a chart, with labels and everything. No wonder Stanford loved him. Sam runs a finger across the page. “Like when Zachariah zapped you to the year 2014 and we changed that outcome already, I know we did. I just don’t get what time-travel trips will affect change and which ones are destined...”

 

Dean interrupts, “You know I hate that word.”

 

Sam goes to snark back, but Gabriel decides he’s been quiet long enough. “Listen up, ignora-mooses. Traveling _back_ in time and affecting the past always results in a time-loop paradox which then destines you to go back and affect the change in order for the present to occur. Get it?”

 

No, Dean doesn’t get it, but Sam’s got this look of dawning comprehension. “So the difference is between the past and the future? The future is malleable, so from any point in time you can go to the future, see it, and decide to change it. But it only works past the point where it is no longer the _past_ to anyone else!”

 

“What?” says Dean. Sam’s excitement is the scent of cut grass; the only confusion is his own and Bobby’s, like a hot flash down his wing. 

 

“Sam, yer making less sense the more coffee I drink, and that ain’t right.” 

 

“Oh-kay!” Gabriel exclaims, jumping up from his chair. “Time Travel for Dummies, listen close, little birds!” He uses his finger to mark a glowing line in the air. “Right here is the present. Here, this is the past.” Some ways down the line he marks another spot. “Now, _here’s_ the pretend point where you stop the Apocalypse, just ahead of your present.” On the opposite side he marks a third spot. “And right here? This is where Michael decides to go back.” He draws a little star further into the ‘future’, past the Apocalypse marker. “Even though this is your current present, when Michael goes back, he goes back to _this_ past, here,” he marks a place at the end of the ‘past’ line and labels it 1978. “Or was it 1977? Whatever. Semantics. Anyway, so, when you, Dean-o, went back in time last time, it set the stage for Azazel’s deal and obsession with you Winchesters. Anything that happened between the point you went back and the point you interfered was set in stone, because in order for one to happen, the other had to happen as well.” He checked to make sure they were still following. Dean hated to admit that the light-show kind of helped. 

 

“Yeah, so?” 

 

Gabriel goes back to the Michael-marker. “So, when _Michael_ here decides to go back to 1978 - 77 - whatever, everything else in between gets set in stone as well, because in order for him to decide to go back, major events must happen exactly as they do in order to lead him to that conclusion. _However,_ as long as no one else has decided to do any time-traveling after Michael-” he marks a random place on the ‘future’ line ahead of Michael, “and before your present-” he marks another random spot between the ‘present’ point and ‘1978’, “then anything that happens after Michael is up for grabs. Once you’re closed off in a time loop like this, it’s gotta play out. Unless, you know, you’re an über powerful deity.” Gabriel swipes his hand through the entire display, making it dissipate. “‘Course, that’s not even getting me started on alternate dimensions, but let’s not go there.”

 

“Like 2014!” Sam cried, hand slapping the pages of his diary. “Of course!”

 

Gabriel sneers. “Yeah. Zachariah always was a lying little cheat.”

 

“So that _wasn’t_ the future!” Dean feels vindicated. He _knew_ it. He _knew_ there was something real fishy going on with that shit-hole Zachariah had dumped him in. He’d kind of bluffed it a little, but knowing he had definitely been right is liberating. “I knew it.”

 

Gabriel claps for him mockingly. “Good _job_ , my young apprentice.”

 

“ _Moving on,_ ” Sam interrupts forcefully. “So far all we have is the way to open the cage, but no way to get Lucifer inside. Maybe we can use ourselves to lure Lucifer and Michael there and then when they’re distracted with the whole vessel issue… But we’d only have one shot at it, cause I doubt he’ll allow himself to get caught off guard more than once.”

 

Bobby finally gets tired of waiting for more coffee to brew and pours himself three-quarters of a cup. He gulps down half in one go and blows heavily. “Hot.” He wheels back over. “So what you’re saying, Sam, is that we’re counting on Michael to distract Lucifer long enough for you, Dean, and probably Castiel to somehow _trip_ the Devil into his cage? That right?” He doesn’t sound remotely convinced. 

 

Sam shifts, wings flicking sheepishly. “Well...not _trip_.”

 

Dean shakes his head. “What else we gonna do? Knock him out, tie him up and throw him in? He’s _Lucifer_. Good luck with that.”

 

Sam looks around at them all with soft, puppy eyes. “No, don’t you see, that’s why he gave us the swords! We’re not good enough to _beat_ Lucifer with them if we can’t even beat Gabriel...but if we can wound him, we can maybe push him inside. The swords are the key - Michael gave them to us because we need them. They play some significant role, they have to.”

 

“Oooor, they’re just to keep your asses from getting fried by the Horsemen and the other angels gunning for you.”

 

Dean can’t believe this is coming out of his mouth, but, “I...agree with Gabriel.”

 

Gabriel looks delighted. He cups his ear and leans closer. “What was that, nephie-poo?”

 

And back to the gay nicknames. Dean gives him his best stink-eye. 

 

Sam isn’t satisfied, but Bobby declares that before they try gunning for the Devil himself, they ought to focus on the Horsemen first. Which means research. Lots of it. If only Ash were still alive, Dean is sure he’d have been able to create a program that would track Horsemen-type signs all over the country and then voila! Three Horsemen of the Apocalypse rings on a silver platter. 

 

‘Course, it just goes to show that the Winchester brothers must operate under some very specific laws of reality that involve a shit-ton of sheer dumb luck, because Famine pretty much drops right into their laps. 

 

Sometimes it makes Dean wonder, just a little, if maybe God’s not quite as gone as he seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want you to know that the time travel explanation? It made sense in my head when I was writing it. Afterwards...not so much. But, well, it's time travel. It's not supposed to make sense. So... just go with it... Besides, I figured you'd all rather a new chapter than me re-writing the whole thing. Amiright?


	31. Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: S05E14 - My Bloody Valentine

_Hunger_

*

If Dean never meets another cupid again, he’ll die happy. If there ever was a more useless type of angel, it’s the cherubim. Not to mention the naked man hugging? He’d rather rip out his own feathers than be violated in such a way again. 

 

After Dean punches out the cherub (and knocks it unconscious), they figure out it was never the cupid responsible for the strange deaths at all. Which is kind of a pity, because he was just about to get some very satisfying revenge for the naked harassment and all he can settle for is a damn love-tap. Also, bad choice of words. Sucker punch. All he gets to do is _sucker_ _punch_ the creep. 

 

Sam is the first affected by Famine. He bursts into their motel room with a briefcase and a wild look in his eye. There’s the icy chill of fear rolling off of him mixed with a salty, meaty heaviness that Dean realizes is a desperate _hunger._ A need. It’s heady and smells just a little like sex. If he hadn’t been entirely certain that Sam had not stopped off for a quickie, he would have thought nothing of it. But it’s not quite arousal - it’s thicker, sourer, and it chokes him. He breathes through his nose and exhales loudly. 

 

“W-what?”

 

Safe in their motel room, Sam’s wings explode from his back, flaring and twitching in distress. “Dean! It’s back! The craving...it’s _there_. I can feel it like this...this fiery _abyss_ in my stomach that _burns_.”

 

Cas flutters into the room in a mild panic. “Dean. Sam. It’s Famine.” Then he gets a good look at Sam and the expression on his face - the scent of his emotions - is not encouraging. “This is bad. It’s awoken your craving.” The rustle of paper and the smell of meat - real meat, this time - creeps past Dean’s senses just as Cas holds up a half-eaten burger sheepishly. “It got me too.”

 

Sam slams the forgotten briefcase down on the table and falls into a chair. He puts his hands in his head and groans. “It _hurts_...like...like _fire_.”

 

“Hold on, we’re angels, dammit! How is Famine doing...whatever this is?”

 

They have to wait for Castiel to finish his burger before he can reply. “Hunger, need, starvation. Everyone is starving for something - sex, attention, drugs, love…”

 

Dean thinks of the couple that ate each other to death and the mutual lovers suicide; the poor twinkie-dude. “Awesome. Well, that explains those poor shmucks, but us?”

 

“Famine turns that hunger rabid. It’s affected my vessel, and as you have human souls, it’s affecting them as well. Dean, you appear to be the only one who has not been infected yet.”

 

Dean twitches and flares his wings in a helpless shrug. “Why me?”

 

Cas shrugs as well. “I do not know. But this is bad.” He nods at Sam, who’s resting his head on the table next to the black briefcase. “Sam is in danger.”

 

Sam lifts his head with exaggerated slowness. He looks pale and waxy. Sweat beads on his brow. “Why?” he gasps. 

 

“Because, your Grace will fight the craving for demon blood, and if you should ingest it...your body will battle it. It will burn you from the inside out.” And with that Cas pulls another burger out of the bag and unwraps it hurriedly. “I believe we should send him to Gabriel, lest he succumb to this desire. It is very strong. But that could also spread the infection if Gabriel is not immune.” His words are punctuated by the sound of his teeth ripping into the burger. Normally Dean’s down with burgers of any kind, but the sight of Cas stuffing his face full of masticated meat with that wild, desperate glint in his eye is just wrong on so many levels that it’s sickening.

 

Sam pulls a typical bitchface and tries to hide behind the spread feathers of one wing. “Jeez, Cas.”

 

“Vewy stwong,” Cas repeats through a mouthful of pulpy meat and bread. 

 

Dean turns back to the table. “O-kay!” He nods at the briefcase, which is still a mystery. “What’s in the case?”

 

Sam reaches out for the silver latches, flicking one, then the other. He braces himself with his wings and Dean can’t help arching his own over his body in an invisible Grace-shield. Cas is too busy chewing, but he makes a few noises in the back of his throat that might have been words and Dean feels a tickling at the back of his mind that he suspects is Castiel’s radio frequency. The tickling stops when Dean looks at him. 

 

“Holy crap!” Sam pops open the suitcase and of all the things to emerge, a shining human soul comes zooming out. It’s twinkie-guy, there’s no mistaking the shape and feel of his soul. Dean gapes at it as it flutters and darts for a few seconds and then, in a fraction of a second, a second flicker of light appears and Dean knows that shape. 

 

“Reaper-” he barely has time to get out before the Reaper scoops up the soul. The light flares and radiates in such a way that Dean’s mind fills with the impression of a cordial head nod, and then simply disappears. 

 

“Holy crap,” Sammy repeats. “Was that…”

 

“A human soul,” Cas confirms. “Famine is hungry, he _is_ hunger, and he must devour the souls of his victims.” He stares forlornly at his empty burger bag and the roiling wave of _need_ that billows off of him and hits Dean is staggering. He brings both wing tips up and around to fend it off.

 

“Dude-” Dean begins, but Cas is gone with a mighty flap. “Son of a bitch.” He turns to Sam. “This isn’t good.”

 

Sam just moans. “Deeeaannnn.”

 

Dean shakes off the last of the need and hunger and wraps both wings around his baby brother in a vain attempt to help. “Sam, come on. Fight it.”

 

Sam clutches large swaths of feathers and it friggin’ hurts, but Dean stands still and puts up with the weird touch of Grace-on-Grace and the pinching pain. “Okay, Sam. I’ll go fetch Cas, and together we’ll find Famine and while Cas distracts him, I’ll slice the bastard’s finger off. You just...stay here.”

 

Sam peers up at him through clumps of sweaty hair. “Dean...I don’t know if I _can_.”

 

“I’ll lock you in.” Admittedly, he already knows how stupid that sounds even before the words are all the way out of his mouth. “Shut up. Well what the hell do you want me to do, Sam? Trap you in holy oil?” When Sam actually looks to be considering the idea, Dean yanks his wings back and steps away, hands out. “Oh no. No way. No way in _hell_ , dude. You’d be a sitting duck! ‘Sides, do we even know if it’ll work on us?”

 

Sam grimaces. “Don’t know...till we try. Dean...you gotta.”

 

Sam’s right. Dammit it all, but he’s right. Dean can protest all he wants, but it’s the only solution. If Sam doesn’t think he has the willpower to stay put, then he needs to be locked down and with his new angel-powers the only way to do that is a circle of holy fire. Dean just doesn’t like to think of Sammy trapped in a circle of fire like...well, like one of the monsters they normally hunt. It smacks way too much of a Devil’s Trap. If anyone comes across Sam...he’d be helpless and worse of all, they’d _know._

 

He’s also a little afraid. There’s a reason no angel dares to step past a ring of holy fire, even an Archangel like Gabriel didn’t dare. He’d be locking his brother in a supernatural cage. If Sam’s hunger got the best of him...would it drive him to try to escape? Would he come back to find nothing but ashes and a blackened wing print cast across the floor?

 

Lately they always have holy oil on hand, just in case they ever run into any douchebag feather-dusters that need taking care of. Sam’s shaking as he steps inside the rather large circle. Dean tried to give Sam as much room as he could manage without running out of oil. 

 

“Ready?”

 

Sam stares at the line of oil, wings pulled tight against his body. “Just do it.”

 

Dean lights the match and lets it drop. He jerks a step back when he feels the barrier spring up. Sam is there but he’s not. His presence is dimmed, like a pale shadow. He feels unreal - no more than a passing reflection in a window, or a distant memory. 

 

Sam gasps and whirls in place. “Dean…”

 

“It works then,” Dean states unnecessarily. 

 

He can still see the look of alarm and mild panic on Sam’s face as he wings his way to find Cas. The worst part is that there was still that underlying edge of desperate need hinting at the taut corners of Sam’s mouth and eyes, and in the shadow of his voice as he spoke. It was for Sam’s own good to...to trap him like a demon. 

 

Cas finds him before he can find Cas. This time he has two bags filled with steaming, foil-wrapped burgers, and he can’t seem to get more than a sentence out before he rips another chunk out of the burger in his hands. Miraculously, he knows where Famine is. Unfortunately, he’s also too far gone to actually be of any help. But he can still be a minor distraction. All Dean needs is a few seconds. All he needs is enough time to swing his sword and chop the finger right offa Famine’s ugly-ass hand. 

 

And ugly-ass he is. Rotting and wrinkled, with liver spots the size of Alaska and so frail, shaky and incapable that each breath rattles his rib-cage and the gnarled, yellowed nail on the tip of his pointer finger can’t seem to stay perfectly angled. Dean can’t exactly believe that this old corpse is supposed to be one of the feared Horsemen of the Apocalypse, especially with an oxygen tube snaking from one ear to the other. 

 

And then the bag of bones has to open its mouth and spew forth vitriol - the lying son of a bitch. Dean refuses to believe it - any of it. Famine doesn’t know _jack_. Famine still thinks he’s human. Famine doesn’t _know_ he’s a Nephil, so he’s just fishing, that’s all. 

 

But Famine’s words - that Dean has an empty hole inside of him that can’t be filled - that Dean is _broken_ because of Hell...they echo round and round his mind. If Sam weren’t cut off in that holy fire, Dean would have been bombarding him with pain saturated guilt. In the end, Dean fights off the demon bodyguards, taking them by surprise with his strength and his angel blade, and before Famine can call for help, stabs the bastard right through the gut. 

 

“I’m not empty,” he tells the corpse. But his words feel hollow. 

 

He’s not though. Castiel would have said something. Hell, _Gabriel_ would have said something. No, Dean just got lucky enough not be infected, that’s all. 

 

That’s all it is. 


	32. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: S05E15 - Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid

_Family_  


*

The Devil summons Death in Missouri and all of a sudden it’s a zombie free-for-all.

 

To be fair, Lucifer waited long enough for them to drop their guard before calling up the dead, so Dean feels completely justified for not having figured out what was going on before the newly-risen went feral on their asses. It doesn’t help that Bobby thought he could deal with a friggin’ zombie apocalypse all by himself in his goddamn wheelchair. It’s a good thing Dean knows Bobby far too well to fall for that old ‘everything’s fine, Dean’ trick. Fine his _ass._

 

It’s far from _fine_ when people are clawing their way out of their graves in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Even Gabriel wants to wipe his hands of it and stay well away from anywhere touched by Death. So it’s left up to Dean and Sam to do something about this little Cinco de Mayo fiesta. 

 

When the first newly-risen dead person turns rabid and tries to eat Sam’s face off, Sam reacts like any well-trained hunter and shoots the hell out of it. Apparently guns work just as well on dead-people zombies as they do on croatoan-infected zombies, so at least there’s that. Dean wasn’t looking forward to getting up close and personal with his sword. 

 

Bobby’s completely outta his mind, though, because of his wife’s not-so-miraculous return from the dead. Dean tries to argue with him—first he argues, rationally, then he threatens, then he pleads. 

 

“I’ll shoot you, boy! Don’t think I won’t!” Bobby’s gone from cocking his gun to pointing it straight at them. 

 

Dean spreads his arms out, wings doing the same, even if Bobby can’t see them. The waves of sizzling, red-hot iron heat flooding off Bobby in an inferno of desperation are keeping Dean at a distance, despite everything. Next to him, Sam is wincing and holding up his wings to block the hot tang of iron. “Bobby, please,” he pleads. Dean speaks over him, “You can shoot us all you want, Bobby. Won’t do a damn thing to stop us.”

 

Bobby glares. “Then maybe I oughtta start angel-proofing this house once and for all. Don’t think I won’t!”

 

Sam sucks in a breath just as the words hit Dean like a punch in the gut. “You’d really do that to us, Bobby?” Sammy asks, looking like a wounded puppy. Kid really knows how to guilt trip. 

  
  
“Getch’yer damn angel asses outta my house or you’ll find out. This is my problem and I’ll damn well deal with it how I choose.”

 

They leave, then, not because they’re being forced to, and not because Dean thinks Bobby can do them any harm, but because what’s the damn point, if Bobby’s gonna be like this? Dean had thought they were like family...but he guesses that when it comes down to it, even Bobby’s not gonna choose two Nephilim over his zombie wife. And ain’t that the kicker? 

 

“Dean…” says Sam. 

 

Dean flares the tip of his wing sharply. “Don’t.”

 

“He’s not thinking straight. It’s his _wife_.”

 

“I said _don’t_ , Sam!”

 

Sammy doesn’t bring it up again for a while, until they’re camping out in the Impala, and it’s clear he can’t contain himself any longer. All of Samantha’s little girl feelings have been bombarding Dean’s nerves all damn day long, and he’s reached his limit as well. “Dammit, Sam, put a lid on the emotional crap, okay?”

 

Sam crosses his arms, wings wrapped around himself defensively. “What? And be all stoic and unfeeling like you, Dean? I don’t buy it—I felt you when he kicked us out—it’s eating you from the inside out. Look, dude, I told you he’s not in his right mind right now. He didn’t mean it like that.”

 

Dean slams his open palm on the steering wheel, fortunately not hard enough to dent it. “Mean it like what? Oh, you mean like when he looks at us all he sees are two more douchebag angels? Two more inhuman monsters? Because he might as well have said it straight! He said he’d ward the house against us—us, Sam! We’re supposed to be family!”

 

“We _are_ -” Sam begins, argument already weak, voice dull and wings drooping. 

 

There’s a soft rustle of feathers from the back seat. Dean doesn’t need to look in the rear-view mirror to know it’s Gabriel. Sam cuts himself off, peering over his shoulder hopefully. Gabriel twists his head around, peering out the windows of the Impala and hunching down low like it’s suddenly Mission Impossible redux. “Damn, boys, this place is like No-Man’s Land. I’m not sticking around for long, you hear?”

 

Dean snorts. “Yeah, sure, whatever.”

 

Gabriel glares at the back of his head. “Can it, kid! I’m checking in on you, aren’t I? What more do you want?”

 

“We don’t need a friggin’ babysitter!”

 

“Dean!” Sam snaps. He gives Gabriel the patented puppy-dog eyes look. “Look, we...Bobby kicked us out, okay? He threatened to angel-proof his house. We’re just a little…”

 

Gabriel crosses his arms and snorts softly. “Oh, I get it. The human finally cops out when the going gets tough. Figured this would happen sooner or later...can’t ever get too attached to a human, kiddo, it never ends well. Either they betray you in the end, or they die. Either way it’s a tragedy in the making—take it from someone who knows.”

 

“Bobby’s not just any human, he’s family,” Sam refutes. 

 

Dean lets out an incredulous laugh. “Jeez, are you listening to yourselves? ‘The humans’—since when did we start lumping ourselves in with the rest of the Dick Squad, Sammy?” 

 

Sam shifts uncomfortably, but Gabriel gets prissy. If he had his wings on display, Dean imagines they would have been puffed up like an indignant peacock. “Excuse me, but last I checked your daddy’s an archangel and you’re _not human_. You were _never_ human. Ironic, that,” he adds under his breath. 

 

Dean wishes he could introduce his .45 to Gabriel’s smart mouth. He knows that, okay? He does. But that doesn’t mean he can’t just...not think about it. Ever.

 

“We’re still half-human. Our birth parents were human. Michael just...contributed,” Sam points out. 

 

Gabriel shakes his head and laughs, short and sharp. “No, no. It doesn’t work like that. Tell me, is a werewolf any less a werewolf because it’s human for most of the month? Because it used to be human? Or the Antichrist—do you think, oh, well, half of him is human…or does the combination of human and demon just create something new? A cambion. It’s not like a switch you can flick between angel and human—either you’re one hundred percent human, or you’re _not._ And you two mooks are _not_ human.” Gabriel leans over the barrier between the two front seats so that his mouth hovers near their ears. His breath tickles the feathers on Dean’s wings and he draws them in tightly. “Humans have their immortal soul, nothing more or less, and angels have their Grace. You—you have ensouled Grace. You’re just a different breed of angel.”

 

Dean stares resolutely ahead. “I know that, okay? We’re not stupid, we figured that out already.”

 

“Then stop trying to pretend,” Gabriel snaps. “Deal with it.”

 

And then he’s gone. 

 

Sam’s voice fills the silence. “He’s wrong, you know.”

 

Dean grunts. 

 

“Family isn’t blood. Or, uh, Grace, in this case.”

 

Sam’s right on that account. And it strikes him that this is just like the time Sam was high on demon blood all over again—just because Bobby doesn’t want to be saved doesn’t mean Dean’s not going to haul his fool ass outta the fire anyway. After all, that’s what family’s for. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long wait, short chapter. I know. Life got in the way. I'll update again soon!


	33. Prayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No tags. This chapter is pure indulgence. Enjoy.

_Prayer_

*

Dean doesn’t notice it at first. He brushes it off as a stray thought. A bit of a non-sequitur, sure,but nothing out of the ordinary. But the niggling little voice persists, growing louder and louder until he actually stops what he’s doing and focuses on it. 

 

_\--holy angel, Dean, O’ holy angel of God, guardian and protector, shelter me in this hour of need--_

 

Dean jerks his head back in shock, but the prayer just keeps on, almost nonsensical, a string of sentiments and a burning plea that bounces around his skull, screaming ‘save me! save us!’ 

 

Someone is praying to him. Dean. 

 

He drops his half-eaten burger in shock. He is compelled to stand, feeling strangely detached. Someone is begging for his help, and he feels a peculiar, burning need to aid them. 

 

“Dean? Dean! Dude, what is it?”

 

Dean blinks. “...gotta go, Sam.” He turns for the door to the diner. Behind him he hears Sam fumble for his wallet. 

 

“Dean! Wait!” _What’s going on?_ his voice slams into Dean’s head, momentarily drowning out the echoing prayer. 

 

_...needs me. Praying to me. Needs help, Sam._

 

He pushes outside and rounds the corner. He spreads his senses—there’s just the people in the diner, who can no longer see him, he’s alone, it’s safe—and unfurls his mind, latching onto the source of the prayer. He’s not even really sure how he does it—it’s completely instinctual. The prayer is a guiding beacon that his mind follows back to the pastor in the small-town church they’d stopped at on the way to hunting Gabriel. The pastor he unburdened himself on—the one who knows who he is. If he’s praying to _Dean_ for help, it has to be bad. 

 

Dean shakes his wings free of their confinement, flares them wide, pearlescent wingtips glinting in the sun, and flings himself through space. In a move he’s only recently perfected, between one wingbeat and the next, he shifts sideways mid-flight and lands inside the lit church in a shadowy alcove, completely invisible to mortal eyes. 

 

The mid-morning sun streams through the simple stained glass, splashing fractured rainbow light across the upturned faces of the terrified Sunday mass. Dean steps out, eyes darting to and fro, trying to pinpoint the sense of oily, slick nausea that has begun to tease the edges of his senses and coat the back of his throat. 

 

_Demons._

 

The pastor stands in front of—no, presses involuntarily against his podium, hands up, eyes wide, but his mind racing with prayer. It’s louder, echoing round and round Dean’s skull on loudspeaker now that he’s actually in the same room. Two churchgoers with the diseased taint of demon have the pastor caged in. Another blocks the entrance to the church, grinning and giggling in the meatsuit of a teenage girl. 

 

Fury bubbles in Dean’s gut. A teenage girl! And one of the others - a teenage boy. The last is a middle-aged man. 

 

“Please,” the pastor is saying. “Let them go. Let them all go and I will cooperate.”

 

The demon in the middle-aged man snickers. “What you gonna do, preacher? You’ve got nothin’! You can’t stop us! We’ll take our sweet time with you, rest assured. Your gifts...we have a use for them.”

 

_Gifts?_ Dean wonders. Of course. This man had been able to sense what he was. 

 

“Please, Danny, please, stop this! You don’t have to do this!” a woman two rows down, a seat away from the edge of the aisle, begs desperately. Her perfectly coiffed brown hair is the only thing about her that still looks presentable. Her eyes are wide and red with horror. 

 

“Hear that? That’s the sweet sound of desperation,” the older demon mocks. “Poor things, they have no _idea,_ do they? Tell them. Go on. I know you know! I know you can _see_ us!”

 

The pastor closes his eyes in resignation. Dean feels the urge to step out, but stays his hand, just a little while longer. Just to see where this is all going. 

 

“Madeline,” the pastor speaks, calmly, yet authoritatively, “right now that’s not your son. A demon has taken control of his words and actions. Do not blame him —it is not Daniel doing these things. Pray for his soul, pray for deliverance. Our lives are in the hands of God’s angels now.”

 

The pastor’s prayer comes back again, stronger, nearly battering Dean’s brain. He jerks his head, as if he can just shake the words right out of his mind. His mouth thins, a narrow angry line. Part of him wants to seize the pastor, scream at him that he can _fight_ _back dammit_! _Do_ _something_! But the more rational part of him knows that without hunter training, without the specialized knowledge to fight them off, demons are impossible to overpower, and the pastor knows that. He’s doing only what he knows, what he can, no less. 

 

The demon finds the pastor’s words particularly hilarious—all three of them do. They burst into raucous laughter, cutting off the exclamations of the churchgoers. 

 

“You think the _angels_ will save you?” the lead demon cackles. “Please! The angels don’t give a shit about you hunks of meat! No one’s coming to save you—and definitely not any _angels_!”

 

_Dammit, Dean! Where are you?_

 

Dean pushes Sam’s frantic voice out of his head. He’ll deal with his baby brother later. 

 

Shoving away Sam’s voice only increases the volume of the pastor. _\--watch over their immortal souls, guide them safely to the arms of Our Lord--_ Even in the face of the demon’s skepticism, his thoughts haven’t faltered—his belief is still strong, almost overpowering. It fills Dean to the brim, and he feels like he could take on the world. 

 

Enough is enough. Dean knows he shouldn’t reveal himself—should instead come up with a way of dealing with this safely and without giving anything away, but...he’s not going to be leaving any witnesses that will tell. And he knows the pastor will keep his silence. He’s kept his mouth shut this long, hasn’t he?

 

Besides, he’s always wanted to try smiting. And this demonic dick has it coming for him.

 

When the demon in the boy flexes his hand and the pastor begins to cry out, limbs splaying against the edges of the podium in a painful position, Dean steps out of the shadows. At the same time, he shifts sideways into a more visible plane. “Hey, you black-eyed sons of bitches! Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”

 

The pastor snaps his head around, eyes wide with surprise. “You came!” he breathes. Everyone else gasps—some in fear, some in surprise. 

 

“You needed me,” Dean replies with a shrug. He prowls forward towards the center of the raised platform. The demon in the teen jumps backwards, black eyes narrowed. He backs into the aisle, where there are several easy human shields within grabbing distance. They all shrink away from him, but they really have nowhere to go - the church is too small, too homely, and there is only one way in and out. 

 

This is kind of a disaster in the making. If Dean wants this to end with minimal bloodshed, he’s gonna have to call for back-up. _Alright, Sammy, get your ass over here, but do it unseen, will ya? I want to have the element of surprise —I’ll keep them occupied with me, you can cut them off from behind._ He transmits an image of the situation—one demon still trapping the pastor against the podium, another keeping the terrified congregation in their seats, and the last blocking the exit. 

 

_Dude, what the hell?_ is Sam’s annoyed reply. _What happened to keeping a low profile?_

 

_The pastor knows who—what —I am. And I don’t plan on leaving any other witnesses, do you?_

 

Sam sends back grim determination and that’s that. 

 

“Winchester,” the older demon finally spits after a moment of glaring. “If we’d’a known you were in town...”

 

Dean smirks, keeping his posture and gait loose and ready to react. “You’d have what? Told big daddy Lucifer? Yeah, don’t think any of you are getting out of this alive.”

 

“We’ll see,” the demon snaps, raising a hand. 

 

Dean sees the roil of smoky blackness surge from the demon’s fingers; the mark of the demon’s powers. It shoots straight for Dean, ready to slam him back against the flimsy wooden wall. Dean snaps his wings around himself in a protective shield—the nauseating, roiling mass hits him and he braces himself, Grace flaring in protest, eager to burn away the evil. His power cuts through the demonic taint and sears it from existence. His wings draw back in a threatening arch. He wants to laugh, giddy. That… that was _awesome._

 

Demons can’t touch him anymore. Demons are _nothing._ “Yeah, don’t bother. You’re no match for me.”

 

The demon drops its hand in shock. “Wha...how?”

 

Dean’s Grace flares hotter, eager to burn out the demon occupying the man’s body. It heats his palm to a temperature that should feel uncomfortable. He must give off some kind of holy vibe, because it doesn’t take the demon much longer to catch on, even if its simple, twisted soul isn’t capable of _seeing_ his Grace. It stumbles back, horrified. 

 

“N-no...Michael?”

 

Dean narrows his eyes. “Try again!”

 

It’s already convinced Michael’s taken his vessel. “No!” It whirls around. “Get out of here! Tell Lucifer Winchester’s joined Michael-”

 

Dean flies the remaining distance in the blink of an eye. He knows how smiting is supposed to work. Both Gabriel and Castiel had lectured them both very sternly; Grace will automatically purify the taint of evil, he just needs to be careful not to let it run rampant, lest it also burn away the human soul as well. 

 

The demon doesn’t even have time to flinch. He grabs its head, exactly like he’s seen Cas do so many times before. His Grace-hot palm smothers the demon’s face, and suddenly its a struggle to hold back the floodgates. He feels it spill into the demon’s vessel, seeking out every corner of tainted, twisted demonic soul and incinerating it. It pours out of him like a waterfall and only his strength of will slams the dam wall back up.

 

The demon screams—one second, two—and cuts off abruptly, going limp as his Grace finds that last bit of black smoke and extinguishes it. The man collapses like a puppet whose strings are cut. He crumples to the floor, hitting it with a loud smack. 

 

The rest of the fight happens in a matter of seconds. Time seems to slow. The demon by the door scrambles to get out, but Sam, waiting for the opportune moment, slips back into reality and blocks the way. Dean tunes out that fight, hoping Sam has the presence of mind to try to save the girl. All these meatsuits still have souls—oppressed, stamped down and smothered with demonic evil, but still there, fluttering faintly, desperate to escape. 

 

The last demon, the one in the teenaged boy, stares at him for half a second in shock before he flings his head back and tries to flee.

 

Dean refuses to let the bastard get away. He doesn’t know if he can stop it, but he’s going to damn well try. With the demon already half-way out of its host body, he doesn’t bother attempting to exorcise it, he just flies straight for the pillar of smoke and grabs at it with both Grace-hot hands. 

 

Direct contact with demon smoke is like dipping his soul-Grace in a vat of bubonic plague—or at least, that’s what he imagines it feels like. It’s sick and twisted and _diseased_. It makes his skin—his very _essence_ crawl. The urge to purify it, smite it from existence, is stronger than ever. He yanks the escaping smoke towards him, even as he feels his Grace flare white-hot, burning more fiercely, more dangerously than it ever has before. He feels like he’s teetering on the edge of a cliff—one slip over the edge and he’ll burst at the seams; explode like a supernova. 

 

The demon is writhing and screeching, burning away at an impressive rate. Dean flares his wings out, as if they can hold him back from that metaphorical edge. Peripherally, he’s aware that the teenage boy —Daniel—is convulsing, head still thrown back with the last vestiges of the demon’s smoke trail. 

 

With every ounce of iron will that he possesses, Dean seizes the power of an exploding star that calls itself his Grace and reigns it back, stuffing it back inside his body, where it settles back into its normal Dean-with-wings shape. It swirls and eddies in place, and he still feels like he could burst, but the demon is gone, burned away to nothing. The boy tilts forward, falling. Dean reaches out and catches him effortlessly. 

 

This one, he’s shocked to notice, is awake. The boy stares at him with impossibly wide eyes, breath a staccato beat of fear and awe. 

 

Dean’s voice cracks when he croaks, “I gotcha, kid.”

 

The kid wraps his hand around Dean’s arm, touch hesitant and emotions so full of awe and reverence that it’s more like a caress directly against his Grace. Like warm apple pie and hot cocoa in front of a roaring fire on a winter day. “You saved me.”

 

Dean cracks a smile. “Kinda in my job description, kid.”

 

There’s a hesitant movement beyond his peripheral vision, that he senses more than sees. After that entire mess, it’s like his senses are on steroids. He feels the approach of a softly glowing soul radiating worry, awe and relief. It tastes like sweet peppermint, with a hint of sea salt. 

 

“D-Danny?”

 

The kid tries to straighten, but stumbles. He’s shaking like a leaf. Dean keeps him propped up. They turn to face the woman, the one from earlier who’d begged the demon possessing her son to stop. Her make-up is completely ruined and her face is blotchy from crying. 

 

“I’m okay, Mom,” the kid smiles, weakly. 

 

“I…” The woman halts a short distance away. The rest of the church is quiet, almost reverent. Dean feels Sam watching from the doorway. He’s got the girl the third demon had been possessing. She’s unconscious. 

 

_Dude, I hate to say it, but that was seriously biblical,_ Sam tells him, unable to completely hide his amusement. _You’d better tell them you’re just a foot soldier before they start worshiping you as the next coming of Christ or something._

 

Dean gives Sam the mental finger. 

 

The pastor clears his throat ever so softly from the platform. “I think what Madeline means to say is that we all give thanks to God’s angels. Thank you for saving us.”

 

The boy in Dean’s arms stiffens. Madeline covers her mouth with a hand, eyes wide. “An Angel of the Lord,” she whispers. 

 

So now it’s really awkward. Dean’s not entirely sure what to do. Sam thinks this is all hilarious and is happy to skulk away in the background because he’s a little bitch. And Dean’s stuck in the middle in the spotlight. 

 

“Just doin’ my job,” he tells them all. He turns to address the pastor, adding, “You prayed for help. I came.”

 

The pastor bows his head, hands clasped. “We all thank you from the bottoms of our hearts.” Like it’s some kind of signal, the rest of the congregation bows their heads and clasps their hands in prayer. A swell of gratitude, of love and awe and faith sweeps Dean up in a haze of euphoria. 

 

_Holy shit,_ his mind babbles. _That’s better than a whole bottle of Jack!_ His Grace soaks it up, his wings flaring brighter, more radiant, and preening. 

 

“Beautiful,” he hears the pastor murmur in awe. 

 

Then the moment is shattered by one very annoying, very unwelcome voice. “I leave you two kids alone for even a second and you end up in the weirdest situations, I swear.”

 

Dean closes his eyes in resignation. He can hear Sam sigh from the other end of the church. “Gabriel,” his brother mutters. 

 

A gasp ripples from the back of the pews. The name _Gabriel_ echoes in the cavernous room, accompanied by the scent of fresh peppermint and cut grass. 

 

Dean turns his head up to glare. Gabriel is perched, like the irritating drama-queen he is, on one of the beams that supports the church roof. He’s swinging his legs, grinning down at them. He looks like a kid in a candy store. 

 

“What are you doing here?” Dean demands. The boy - Danny - squirms in his grip, and Dean realizes he’s still got ahold of the kid. Sheepishly, he passes him off to his mother, who accepts the burden numbly, because she’s probably incapable of actual thought right now. The whole church is kind of in shock. 

 

“Watching you start up your own fanbase. Nice going, Dean-o. If you keep it up, you’ll soon have one rivaling mine—there’s no way you’ll be able to answer all their prayers then.”

 

“I am _not_ trying to start a fanbase!” He’s already _got_ one, sadly. He doesn’t need any more crazy people trying to track him and his brother down and violate their privacy. Speaking of which, he can feel his brother’s horror at the thought of any more _Beckys_ from the opposite end of the pews. 

 

So can Gabriel. “Ooooh, that’s right! You’ve already _got_ fans thanks to that Prophet! You know, I’m thinking you’re gonna be the next big thing since Jesus.” 

 

Dean really wants to strangle his uncle right about now. And he wants to stop thinking of the dick as his friggin’ uncle, as well. He turns to the pastor. “You keep this quiet, do you hear me? I don’t need crazy people praying for me left right and center.”

 

_Better you than me,_ Sam thinks at him with a shudder. Dean sees a flash of Becky’s devoted face and shudders himself. Sam really did get the shit end of the stick with that one. 

 

The pastor darts his eyes between Dean, Sam and Gabriel. Dean waves a hand at the ceiling. “Just ignore him, he’s an ass.”

 

_“I,”_ Gabriel declares imperiously, appearing in one smooth movement on the ground next to the bust of the Virgin Mary, “am the Archangel Gabriel...not an ass.”

 

“No, you’re definitely an ass.”

 

Sam smothers his laugh with a cough. The rest of the room radiates shock and confusion. He can kind of relate—before all this Apocalypse shit started going down, his impression of angels had most certainly not included annoying pranksters, trigger-happy, smarmy dicks, and bloodthirsty assholes. No doubt they’re trying to reconcile the reality of God and his angels with their romanticized vision. In fact… 

 

Dean regards them all thoughtfully. They’ve all seen too much now, been inducted into the world of the supernatural for better or for worse, and what is learned cannot be unlearned, so…

 

Impromptu demon fighting lesson it is. 

 

“My lord angels.”

 

Dean freezes in the middle of opening his mouth to start rattling off a quick How To Deal With Demons 101. The pastor has somehow regained his composure and is standing straight, shoulders back, expression set, but still reverent. He looks at Dean like Dean used to look at his father—awe, obeisance, respect, love, and just a touch of rebellion. “Yes?” he prods warily. 

 

“If that is the Archangel Lord Gabriel, then why can I see your wings and not his?”

 

There’s a heavy silence. Sam’s eyebrows shoot straight to his hairline. Dean’s not so surprised - this man may be devout and utterly sure in his faith, but he’s also not an idiot. After just being attacked by demons, Dean’s not surprised the guy has questions. 

 

Dean exchanges glances with Sam and Gabriel, who’s looking at the pastor with keen interest. Suddenly, there’s a niggling little worm trying to dig a hole through his thoughts, one that sounds an awful lot like Gabriel’s reedy, annoying voice. 

 

_Wow! No wonder the demons wanted him - blessed with the Sight, huh? Oh, don’t look so surprised, Dean-o, Sam-a-lam, I told you it was all in the frequencies - I figured yours out ages ago, I just couldn’t be bothered using it before now. So, what now, o’ fearless leader?_

 

Dean blinked at him in surprise. _You’re asking_ me _what to do?_

 

_Are you on something?_ Sam adds dubiously. 

 

Gabriel waves a hand nonchalantly. _Hey, this is Deannie-boy’s little miracle save, not mine. The good preacher here prayed for_ Dean _\- okay, I hate to say this, kiddo, but your name? Not very angelic. We really need to come up with something with a little more...pizzazz._

 

Dean shakes his wings indignantly. _Screw you! What’s wrong with my name, huh? Who the hell cares, anyway?_

 

Gabriel shrugs. _I’m just saying._

 

_He’s kind of got a point, Dean. It doesn’t sound angelic._ When Dean whirls on Sam angrily, wings flared, Sam holds up his hands, mouth twitching. _Hey, just stating the facts. Didn’t say you should change it, but he_ does _have a point._

 

The scent of confusion grows thicker and thicker and Dean realizes they’ve all been having this long mental conversation that probably looks a tiny bit insane, as they’ve all been gesturing at one another silently, for no apparent reason. And since Dean’s also apparently calling the shots on this one (damn straight he is!), he turns back to the pastor and clears his throat. 

 

“We,” he gestures between him and Sam, “aren’t trying to hide anything at the moment.” He points at Gabriel. “He’s keeping on the down low. Remember that conversation we had before? About...you know?” He flicks a finger between the floor and the ceiling meaningfully.

 

“Ah,” says the pastor. “I see.” He turns and bows deeply to Gabriel, hands clasped in prayer. “My lord, you honor us with your holy presence.”

 

Dean rolls his eyes. Even without being able to sense any of Gabriel’s emotions, he radiates smugness like a badge of honor. He stalks back up to the front of the podium—it’s a little odd to see the pastor actually move aside to accommodate his wings instead of Dean having to pull them in. “Anyway,” he announces loudly, catching the attention of everyone in the room - friggin’ ‘Lord Gabriel’ or no ‘Lord Gabriel’, Dean’s the one actually dealing with this mess, “since you’ve all seen what’s out there...I’m gonna give you some advice.”

 

_Oh, this is gonna be good,_ Gabriel thinks in glee. 

 

_I’m going to kill you,_ Dean sends back. _Slowly and painfully. I promise you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently the links in the first chapter were broken. I fixed them. Also, this chapter is 100% indulgence on my part. I decided I wanted Dean to get his smite on, so Dean got his smite on. Besides, don't tell me you all didn't want to see how that pastor was doing, amiright? I might throw another silly chapter in before we get back to our regularly scheduled season five rehash...


	34. The Naming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No Tags

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is pure crack okay?

_The Naming_

*

“What about just adding ‘el’ onto the end of your name?”

 

“Deanel? Come on, Sam-a-lam, even I think that sounds ridiculous.”

 

“Dennel? Dan...oh, wait, never mind.”

 

Dean tries valiantly to ignore the conversation when it makes a repeated reoccurrence...but he’s an angel, not a goddamn saint. “How about we permanently change your name to Samantha?”

 

But Sam and Gabriel are having too much fun with this. One of these days, Dean’s going to skewer them both on the end of his sword, he really is. 

 

“Deaniel?”

 

“Ha! That’s even worse! How about Dinniel?” Gabriel snickers at some private joke.

 

“Sounds like dinner to me.”

 

“Sounds like my sword tearing you a new one to _me._ ”

 

They fall blessedly silent...for the moment. They’re at it again not even a day later. Sam even has a bible out and is throwing out angel names all over the place.

 

“No, no, he can’t _share_ a name...what’s the point of that?” Gabriel complains. 

 

“I agree, it must be unique - a name unique to Dean,” Castiel agrees.   
  
“Et tu, Cas?” Dean mutters bitterly.

 

“It must have meaning - and it must be powerful,” Cas continues, having completely jumped on the re-name Dean bandwagon with a passion that Dean finds just a little disturbing. Even Gabriel and Sam aren’t taking it _that_ seriously, he can tell they’re mostly doing it to annoy him. But Cas? Cas is _serious_. Dean is regretting making Cas watch that old Superman film. 

 

“Zadik...no, Yash...no,” Cas begins to mutter, cutting himself off before he’s even finished saying the words. “Din…”

 

“Alexander means ‘defender of mankind’,” Sam throws in. 

 

Cas simply stares at him, but his wings puff in alarm. “That is _Greek_.” 

 

“AND THAT IS ENOUGH!” Dean bellows, throwing his hands in the air, his wings arching wide. “I’m not changing my goddamn name! It’s staying Dean and anyone who has a problem with that can go screw themselves!”

 

Dean swears he sees Cas’s wings slump just a little. He pretends he doesn’t see. Cas’ll get over it. 

 

“Now, can we get back to stopping the goddamn Apocalypse?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy October everyone! Have a short non-chapter of Winchester family shenanigans


	35. Hunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: S05E16 - Dark Side of the Moon

_Hunted_

*

Dean had known the day would come, eventually...but he’d put the idea on the back-burner of his mind. After all, even if he and Sam _weren’t_ Nephilim, they had still started the Apocalypse and had both sides of Heaven and Hell hunting their asses...so it was only inevitable that the humans joined in, eventually. 

 

He just never expected it to be hunters that they knew. Then again, Roy and Walt have always been impulsive and trigger-happy sons of bitches. 

 

The two hunters get lucky. Extremely lucky. With as little sleep as Dean and Sam need these days, it’s honestly a miracle that the two idiots manage to catch them during some downtime.

 

Dean’s awake in an instant, though he doesn’t let on. He goes for the gun he always keeps under his pillow, but it’s gone. Damn. 

 

It’s not hard to figure out what’s going on from there. Even wearing ski-masks, Roy’s voice is unmistakable, and Roy never hunts without Walt.

 

Dean has never been scared of death - hell, he’s been flirting with Death ever since he became a hunter - but he never thought he’d be afraid of _not_ dying. Because, he considers, as Roy keeps a shotgun leveled at his chest, what happens if the buckshot does nothing to him? Then he’ll either have one of two options...kill Roy and Walt or let them go and risk facing the consequences if any of the angels or demons get hold of the information. 

 

Well, defensive tactic number one: smooth talk. “Well, is it just me, or do you two seem a tad upset?”

 

Sam’s incredulousness rubs up against him. He has to fight not to shake it off. _Well, you got any bright ideas, Princess?_

 

Sam scowls at him. 

 

Walt jerks his gun threateningly. “Hey, you think you can flip the switch on the Apocalypse and just walk away, Sam?”

 

Sam’s attention switches from Dean to Walt faster than lightning. Dean fluffs and shakes his wings out of his back, letting them stretch up and out to the left, avoiding Sam and Roy. _Well?_ he asks Sam, while Sam is trying to figure out how Roy and Walt know about their role in the Apocalypse. _Just how many hunters you think are after us?_

 

_Do you think any of them know abou-_

 

Sam never gets to finish the thought. Walt pumps his shotgun in an instant and less than a second later, when the ringing sound of the shot fades, Dean’s left staring at his baby brother’s blood-covered, shattered chest. He stares, wings and body frozen in shock. Not even a knife to the chest had taken Sam out...what’s different this time?

 

Sam’s wings shiver and spasm - _not dead, not dead_ , they seem to say. Dean stares, transfixed, as Sam pulls himself away from his body, sitting up and turning to stare down at it with waves of shock and confusion pouring off of his Grace. 

 

“What-” Dean rasps. 

 

Sam’s eyes, blinding with Grace, turn to stare at him. _I...I didn’t mean to…_

 

The lights in the room flicker ominously. 

 

_“The hell!”_

 

Dean’s reminded of Walt and Roy. He whips back around to confront them, but Roy merely cocks his own gun at him and snaps, “Stay the hell down!” 

 

Walt, eyes flicking from corner to corner of the room nervously, orders, “Shoot ‘im.”

 

Roy baulks. “Killin’ Sam was right, but Dean…”

 

_Dean...something’s…something’s calling…there’s…_

 

Dean ignores the byplay between Roy and Walt, turning an incredulous gaze on the true-form of his baby brother. Sammy seems so out of place, standing over his body and shining like the stars in the sky, a pearlescent Sam-shaped soul, space-like wings bursting from his back and glittering Grace laced through every soul-muscle, every inch of shining soul- skin. He looks so very, painfully inhuman, there’s no denying that, and Dean’s grateful that no one else can see him. 

 

Sam is gazing at the ceiling...no, at something beyond the ceiling.

 

“What the hell’re you starin’ at, Winchester?”

 

Dean turns cold, furious eyes on Walt. “You think this is over? You can shoot him, you can shoot me, but I’m gonna warn you that when we come back, I’m gonna be _pissed_.” He’s already pissed. His wings arch far and wide, nearly brushing Sam, going straight through the ceiling. They interfere with the electricity in the wires and the room’s lights flicker and pop. 

 

“Come on!” Dean snarls, feeling that familiar clench of adrenaline rush through him. “Let’s get this show on the road!” _You just hang there, Sammy. Hang there till these bastards leave, then we’ll fix ourselves up, and hunt them down and truss ‘em up like Thanksgiving turkeys. How’s that sound? Sammy?_

 

Sam is still, wings perfectly motionless, his eyes upturned, and then, it happens in an instant. Walt, fed up with waiting, swings his gun around and squeezes the trigger. Dean, eyes on Sam, hears the cracking sound echo, feels the sudden, searing pain in his chest, and in that moment of pain-filled distraction, he sees Sam’s wings flex and flare, his Grace unravel and extend, extend, extend to the stars. He reaches out, with both his body and his Grace. “ _SAM, NO_!” 

 

The room shakes, the lights burst with crystal-like tinkles of glass, the t.v. and radio go wild with static. Roy and Walt both shout, hands spasming and dropping their guns with a clatter that’s hardly heard. Roy is driven to his knees, palms over his ears, but Walt only staggers and watches Dean with wide, disbelieving eyes. 

 

Dean doesn’t care. Sam is gone. Only the aftertaste of his Grace lingers in the room, hovering over his empty meatsuit. 

 

He feels the pain in his chest increase, going from searing to downright acidic, and every breath that he draws in eats away at his veins. He glances down - he’s losing blood - way too much blood. He should be dead, already. He knows why he isn’t; he can feel it, the way his Grace struggles to repair his flesh. It’s slow going though, and Dean can see how Sam might have been ripped right out of his body. Even now, Dean thinks it might be a losing battle - only time will tell...and he’s run out of time. Wherever Sam has gone, Dean has to find him, and he can’t wait around for his body to heal itself first. 

 

“What the _fuck_ , Winchester!” Walt screams at him. “What the hell kinda monster are you?”

 

Dean knows, in the periphery of his thoughts, that Walt (and Roy) are now huge liabilities. But Sammy comes first. Sam has always come first. He’ll deal with Walt and Roy later - if there even _is_ a later. “I’ll come for you,” he promises. Blood bubbles up from his lungs, he feels it choking him on its way up his throat until it spills from the corners of his mouth. 

 

He should be dead. He really should. 

 

Only monsters don’t die when you shoot them point blank. Monsters...and angels. 

 

Walt scrambles for his gun, cursing, trembling. Roy just stares at Dean like a deer caught in the headlights, hands smeared with blood from his ears.

 

Dean doesn’t think it’s a good idea to let Walt shoot him again. It’ll just mean more wounds to repair, later. (And there will be a later, goddamn it). He tries to recall the way Sam talked about his out-of-body experience, the first time. Hell, maybe that’s why it happened in the first place - Sammy’s been there, done that and just panicked when the buckshot hit him. Maybe. He’ll ask the little idiot when he catches up. 

 

It’s like snipping invisible threads. He’s cutting across a row of stitches keeping his flesh and soul bound together, and once he does...the separation is easy. As easy as pulling open a half-healed wound, that is. Yet..peeling himself away from his body should seem harder than it is, but with each thread cut and pulled, he feels the pain recede, like an echo. He feels it there, still, but it’s like a memory and so very distant. No wonder Sammy yanked himself free. 

 

He stretches larger and wider the more he drags himself away, like he’d been locked in a box - a comfortable box, to be sure, but still confining - and suddenly he can stretch to the fullest extent. He cuts the last tie and the pain falls away completely. He’s out. 

 

He can’t see what he looks like, though he imagines it’s similar to Sam, but his Grace is a pearly gray, not black, so he probably looks a lot less like a satanic ritual tattoo gone wrong. He can sense Roy and Walt still in the room, feel their shock, horror and confusion. Their panic. They scramble for the exit, and he watches them go, seeing the bright flare of their souls, more than their physical bodies. Walt’s soul is dimmer than Roy’s, like there’s a mild stain. Walt’s done some things he’s not proud of and the guilt has eaten into his soul. Roy too, but unlike Walt, Roy didn’t push the guilt aside and let it rot him from the inside out. Walt just keeps building upon it, like plaque on tooth enamel. 

 

He’ll remember the feel of their souls and he’ll find them, later. Hunt them down. Bastards.

 

When they’re gone and there’s no more distraction he becomes aware of a soft, gentle tugging centered right between his shoulder blades. He had thought he’d cut all ties to his body, but...no, this is different. This tugging isn’t pulling him towards his meatsuit, but...elsewhere. 

 

The more he focuses on it, the more insistent it gets, flooding through him, latching on so that it tugs on his heart, his mind. It’s warm, welcoming and it seems to call out to him, _come home, Dean! Come home!_

 

Sam couldn’t resist, and neither can Dean. It draws at his Grace, and his Grace responds, the wings on his back spreading out and reaching - it reaches past space, past dimensions, and latches onto the source of the feeling. 

 

And it’s warm apple pies on a balmy day, the feel of a warm, soft embrace, and the faint scent of his mother’s perfume. It’s home. 


	36. Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: S05E16 - Dark Side of the Moon

_Heaven_

*

An angel in heaven. Nothing could be more natural, more _right_. 

 

For all of five seconds, maybe, and then reality slams back in and Dean jerks out of his blissful stupor and realizes...he’s in _heaven_. 

 

And heaven just happens to be angel headquarters. 

 

He’s distracted again, when he looks around. Heaven is like nothing he could have imagined. It’s not some shining city with pearly gates and great towers of light. It’s not just a bunch of clouds, or Eden-like gardens spanning as far as the mind can see. It’s...multi-dimensional. Dean can feel them as they brush up against his Grace, beckoning him, entreating him to come visit; millions upon millions of pocket dimensions, each one unique—different. It’s hard to make heads or tails of any of it. 

 

He’s manifested between dimensions at the moment, just sort of hovering on the brink. To his eyes, it appears as a long, bleak stretch of road through a forest that’s too uniform to be real. The black asphalt reflects the star-swirled night sky and the trees line the road like soldiers. If he squints, he can sort of see little ripples along the road—doorways into pocket realities. He starts walking, approaches the nearest one, overwhelmed by curiosity. He needs to find Sam, and yet…

 

He squeezes through the rift, slipping easily into the dimension. He steps into an old mid-western ranch, the walls and floor made of well-worn wood, small, rickety wooden chairs covered with hand-sewn, patchwork pillows. There’s an old-fashioned wood-burning stove and next to it, a table set for two. A soul sits at the table next to a...construct? An illusion. If Dean looks at it with his eyes, he sees an old woman, but when he tries to see past the facade with his Grace...there’s nothing. It’s just empty air. The other one, the old man, shines brilliantly to Dean, proving his right to be in heaven.

 

He stares, dumbly. He doesn’t understand why this man would be talking with a facsimile of what must be his wife. Why not have his actual wife? Unless...she’s not in heaven. Maybe she’s in hell. He just can’t imagine that a man like this, whose ideal heaven is sitting down to dinner with his wife in his old, homely ranch house, would have married any kind of woman who could end up in hell. 

 

He hastily pulls himself away, back out onto the inter-dimensional road. He looks at the ripples where the spheres of heaven overlap one another with new eyes—are they all like that? Just a single person, trapped in a reality of their own making? Or do they share them with partners and loved ones?

 

Suddenly, frantically, he has to know. 

 

He dives into another one—same thing. This one’s surrounded by family, but they’re all _fake_. Nothing but the one soul is _real._ A third and a fourth reveal the same thing. 

 

“Is that what heaven is?” he asks the sky, incredulous. “A lie? Some stupid, lonely existence where you’re surrounded by illusions of the people you love? What the hell kind of reward is that!”

 

No one responds. It’s probably for the best—God’s missing and the only ones likely to respond are just as likely to skewer him. He glances down at his hands with a frown. They’re smooth and unblemished—completely without imperfection—like marble, and his skin almost seems to ripple as it shines with an inner light. If any angel stumbles across him now, the cat’s out of the bag. 

 

Dean uses Gabriel’s trick. He pulls his Grace inward, as deep as it will go, and binds it down, wrestling it into the shape of a regular soul, like he’s making a clay mould of his appearance and stuffing all that Grace and power inside. The glow dims, but the perfection remains. If anyone looks close enough, they’d know he wasn’t a normal soul. He’s gotta find Sam and get out of here. 

 

He reaches out, mind seeking the familiar tones of Sam’s bitchiness. _Sam? Sammy! Where the hell are you?_

 

He feels an answering ping, Sam reaching back for him. 

 

And suddenly another. 

 

And another.

 

Frozen, Dean feels ten, then twenty answering pings. More and more flood in, and it feels like he’s surrounded by a flock of owls, all clamoring, all hooting the same echoing question, _who?_

 

_Who, who, who?_

 

The other angels have finally noticed him. 

 

This is not good. 

 

Fearing the worst, he lets his wings unfurl, spreads them wide, and flings himself as far away from the inter-dimensional road as possible. He cuts through a dozen dimensional pockets in milliseconds but it’s not even close to far enough. He ends up back on the road—different place, same damn, stupid road—and dives into a reality before any angel can catch him standing there. 

 

It’s a modern dimension, this one. Modern enough for a t.v., at least. That’s what gives away the fact that _someone’s_ found him. The t.v. whines and flickers and suddenly, Dean hears Cas’s voice, whispering through the room. 

 

“Dean? Dean!”

 

Dean relaxes in relief. It’s just Cas—Cas has found him, like he always does. “Cas, man, am I glad to hear you.”

 

“Dean, listen, the spell I am using to maintain contact without alerting the Host is taxing. Whatever you do, do not use your mental frequency. In heaven, it will be nothing but a beacon.”

 

“Yeah, ‘bout that…”

 

“Dean!” Cas chastises. Honestly, he’s worse than a mother hen sometimes. Dean’s feathers fluff guiltily. 

 

“Yeah, well, I didn’t friggin’ know that, did I? They’re onto me...Cas, I gotta find Sam. Do you know where he is?”

 

“Follow the path,” Cas orders, sounding fainter and fainter. “Sam will likely go where he feels most comfortable, but the path runs through all of heaven. I’m sure you’ll find him somewhere along it—just don’t draw any attention to yourself! Gabriel will fix your bodies, they’ll be waiting for you.”

 

“Cas, there must be a million heavens up here—how the hell am I supposed to find the ones that count? I don’t have time to follow the goddamn yellow brick road!”

 

“How do you think any angel navigates heaven, Dean? We use the path, though I admit I have never seen it as a yellow brick road...” 

 

Dean has to strain to hear Cas now. “Cas…?”

 

“Dean, I must…” Cas’s voice finally fades away completely and the t.v. flickers one last time and dies. The soul sitting on the couch, who had been enjoying a glass of wine with her fake-husband gapes at him with wide-eyed shock. The wine spreads a dark, inky stain down her shirt. He’s finally been noticed.

 

He raises a hand lamely. “Uh, nothing to see here. I’ll just be...going now. Sorry to intrude.”

 

“A-angel?” she whispers, eyes still like saucers. She has yet to notice the spilled wine...but then, this is heaven, so maybe all she has to do is wish it gone and it’ll go. 

 

“Seriously, forget this ever happened, okay? And if any other angels come knocking, pretend you don’t know anything, okay?”

 

She just nods dumbly, clearly incapable of articulating much else at the moment. 

 

Dean racks his brain. Where would Sam go? If he can figure out how to navigate heaven, where would he go? 

 

The answer is so easy Dean wants to hit himself for not thinking of it sooner— _Jessica_. The great lug would go straight for Jessica. Idiot. 

 

There’s the sound of wings, the feel of Grace swelling all around him. Whichever angel decided Dean was too much of a curiosity to pass up has managed to track him down.

 

Dean pulls himself further in, turning his Grace inwards, drawing his wings in, forcing them to align with the rest of his soul. He tries to look as Dean-like as possible, as _human_ as possible. He feels the Grace chasing him falter, spilling confusion. 

 

Yeah, time to go. He raises his finger to his lips in one last warning to the woman.

 

He slips out of the pocket heaven and back onto the road...and then he turns and dashes for the forest. With his Grace tampered down, and away from the road, well, hopefully...hopefully they won’t be able to find him. The only problem is that finding Sam requires following the road.

 

_When I get my hands on you, Sam, I’m gonna kill you,_ he thinks. 

 

The sky shivers, the trees sway and that creeping, overwhelming curiosity wrapped in blinding power is back. 

 

Sonnavabitch.

 

Dean doesn’t dare wing his way anywhere. The angel—whoever it is—is too close. Probably the only thing keeping Dean hidden is the fact that he’s buried his Grace so deeply in his facsimile of a human soul that the angel just keeps overlooking him. He ducks behind a fallen tree and presses against it, trying to meld with the bark as much as he can. If the curious angel can just bypass him, carry on, that would be awesome. Really. 

 

A twig snaps close by. Dean jerks his head towards the noise, feeling the pit of his stomach lurch upwards towards his throat. Shit. 

 

It’s...not an angel. It’s a...something. No, a human soul, dressed up like some kind of masked vigilante. He stares at it, because...what the hell? How did _this_ human soul escape its heaven? He can feel the soul staring back—its emotions are muted, like they’re being held in, but they still escape in soft waves of curiosity, excitement and shock. 

 

“Dean?” It—he—whispers incredulously. 

 

“Who?” Dean responds, because, again, _what in the goddamn hell?_

 

“Shh! Come with me!” When Dean makes no move to step away from the tree, the man whispers louder, “Come on! Hurry!”

 

Eh. Between a human who knows him and a trigger-happy angel? Dean follows. 

 

Whoever it is is well-versed in Enochian. Dean trails him to a decrepit little shed with a rotting wooden door, and watches as the guy draws the Enochian symbols for travel, gate and home in white chalk. The symbols flare brightly to Dean’s eyes, empowered by the language of the angels, and the guy yanks the door open and beckons Dean inside. 

 

It’s like stepping through a wormhole. Dean’s felt it before, when Gabriel sent him and Sam spinning through time and space back to 1978. Whatever distance they’ve just jumped is vast - the angel following him will have a hard time catching up any time soon. 

 

The room of this new heaven is dark. The door is slammed shut and Dean backs away a few steps, just in case. “Who are you?” he demands. 

 

The guy laughs, reaches up, and pulls the mask and cape off. “Buenos dias, bitch!”

 

Dean stares. “Ash?” His mouth gapes. Ash just grins at him, claps his hands, and spreads his arms wide as light illuminates a very familiar bar. Ellen’s roadhouse. 

 

“Holy shit, man,” Dean breathes. 

 

Ash grandstands. “Welcome to my blue heaven.”

 

Dean can’t help it, he laughs. “Ash! Shit, am I ever glad to see your ugly mug.”

 

Ash snorts, wandering over to the bar and reaching blindly behind it, hand emerging with two cold ones between his fingers. He offers one silently to Dean. Dean takes it absently, he’s too busy drinking in the sight of Ellen’s place, looking, _smelling,_ exactly the way it used to. It’s a sight for sore eyes, that’s for sure. He cracks the beer open with a grin. “Bottom’s up.”

 

“Ya know, when I saw the angels all in a tizzy ‘bout something, I never woulda guessed it was _you_. I was tracking an angelic anomaly, followin’ it and _poof!_ there you are, Dean.” Ash raises his beer in salute. “So, what did ya in?”

 

Dean pauses mid beer swig. He holds up a hand. “Wait a minute, tracking? Tracking _how?_ ”

 

Ash grins at him. Skirting the edge of the bar, he sets his beer down on the other side and pulls something from beneath the taps. Dean really shouldn’t be surprised that it’s a laptop. Even in heaven, Ash is Ash. 

 

“I rigged up my very own holy-rolling police scanner,” he explains smugly, as he flips the lid and powers it up. The laptop takes a moment as the screen flickers on, a multitude of graphs full of sound waves popping onto the screen and…

 

_“-something found a doorway in, what other explanation is there?”_

 

_“-no, no, no, we have a new brother! Father is creating new brothers! It only makes sense, we’ve lost-”_

 

_“-it feels off, strange, I keep losing it. It’s good at hiding-”_

 

_“-find it! If we’ve been breached-”_

 

Dean blinks at the sudden overlap of conversations. It’s like an overcrowded room all trying to speak at once. 

 

Ash says something, but it’s drowned out by a new voice and this one...this one is familiar. 

 

_“Quiet! The Winchesters are in heaven! Hunters got to them. I want all eyes and ears searching for them—Michael needs his vessel alive!”_ Zachariah, the biggest douche of them all. 

 

“Shit,” Dean exclaims. 

 

“Amen,” Ash agrees, then, suddenly, the voices go quiet because he’s slammed the lid of the laptop down. “Wait. You speak Enochian now?”

 

Dean takes a step back. “What?”

 

Ash gestures to the laptop. “Angels, Enochian.” Dean has absolutely nothing to say to that because, well, apparently he _does_ speak Enochian now. Go figure. Ash sighs. “Whatever, Sam’s here? They said the Winchesters, as in plural, so, Sam?”

 

Dean takes a long pull of his beer to hide the jump in his nerves. Ash doesn’t know about the Nephil thing, clearly, and Dean doesn’t exactly relish him finding out. What if...what if he decides Dean’s not worth helping anymore? Eventually, he manages, “Sam’s somewhere. I need to find him so we can get back to hunting the damn devil.”

 

“Yeah, nice going there, letting the devil out to play.”

 

“Shut up,” Dean grumbles. 

 

Ash raises both hands. “Well hey, don’t effect me anymore, does it? I’m telling you, Dean, until I died, I wasn’t really living. You wouldn’t believe the people I’ve managed to find up here...speakin’ of which. There’s someone who wants to jaw with you. Hold up.”

 

“Hold on-”

 

Ash ignores him, disappearing through the back door. Dean runs a frustrated hand through his hair and feels the restlessness of his Grace tugging at his will, trying to break free of the shape he’s bound it in. Here in heaven it’s harder than it ever was down on Earth trying to keep himself hidden. There’s no flesh-suit to hide behind, and with so much of the Host singing in the background of his senses, cajoling him, coaxing him to relax, he has to keep every bit of focus on keeping himself on the down low. It’s exhausting. 

 

Ash struts back through the door. Dean peers past him, waiting, feeling the soul following him and curious in spite of himself. The soul feels different than most - it reminds him a bit of the pastor’s soul - like it’s extra juiced or something. When he sees _who_ it is, though, he’s not particularly surprised. “Pamela!”

 

Pamela stops before she passes the bar. Her eyes—perfectly healthy, seeing eyes—bore straight through him. Then she turns to Ash and states, “That’s not Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work has been insane, but I'm finally free, and I gift you this chapter for the winter holiday season. Happy Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanzaa, Yule, New Year, etc!


	37. Psychic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: S05E16 - Dark Side of the Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, so, quick reminder: Roy and Walt shot Sam and Dean, separating their souls from their bodies. Dean winds up in Heaven, gets noticed, then only just escapes the angelic host by virtue of Ash rescuing him. Ash brings over Pamela to say hi, and she immediately calls bullshit on Dean, whose soul doesn't exactly look normal...

_Psychic_

*

Dean never thought he’d curse the day he met Pamela Barnes, but today? Today he really could have done without knowing her. It’s great to see her looking so good, but he really could have done with her keeping her psychic powers to herself. 

 

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, it’s an excellent disguise,” Pamela continues with bravado, even though Dean can sense she’s nervous as hell. “But I’ve felt enough angels to know one when it’s standing in front of me. The jig is up.”

 

Ash’s eyes light up. “The anomaly! It’s you!” It seems to occur to him that he might be in trouble, then, because he edges towards his laptop and plucks it up, holding it firmly under one arm. He inches towards the back room door again, and Dean has no doubt that if Ash makes it through, Dean’s gonna have a hellva time finding him again...and Ash is his ticket to finding Sam the fast way. 

 

He holds out his hands, trying to appear unthreatening. “Wait! It’s not what you think. Ash, man, come on. Just...hear me out.”

 

Ash hesitates. Dean can see his need to know—that insatiable curiosity—rear its head. Pamela puts a hand on his arm. “Ash, no.”

 

Dean groans. “Okay, Pamela, you don’t trust angels, I get it. Hell, I don’t blame you, but, in Cas’s defense, he _did_ tell you to stop and you, you kept going, an’ it’s not really his fault that you insisted he show himself and that the sight of an angel’s true form burns out your eyes.”

 

“Are you Castiel?” Pamela demands, taking an aggressive step forward, Her nerves have gone tough and electric and it prickles along Dean’s arms. If he had hair left on his too-perfect soul-body, he imagines he’d have gooseflesh.

 

“Nooo, I’m _Dean_ ,” Dean grumbles.

 

Pamela’s mouth twists mockingly. “If you wanted to imitate Dean Winchester you shouldn’t have forgotten all his scars.”

 

Ash glances between them. “Well, actually,” he begins. 

 

“Ash!”

 

“Hey, don’ shoot the messenger, but in heaven you kinda get to appear how you feel most comfortable, hence, ya know, the eyes-” he raises both brows, flicking his fingers at his own eyes in demonstration. Pamela rolls her own. “Aaand, well, I’m sure not every scar’s gonna show up.”

 

“I know what I see and I see an angel.”

 

“Not arguing there, darlin’. But...just sayin’.”

 

Dean sighs. “Okay, Rocky and Bullwinkle, can we cut to the chase here? Yes, I’m a friggin’ angel, and no, I’m not here for some nefarious plot to get Dean, because I. Am. Dean! Now, are we all on the same page?”

 

Ash raises his hand. “Yeah, you lost me at ‘I’m Dean and I’m an angel’, because last I checked the two don’t exactly go hand in hand.”

 

Pamela crosses her arms and tucks her chin, narrowing her eyes at Dean suspiciously. “I have to admit, you’re awfully good at imitating him.”

 

To keep the air of light-hearted banter going, Dean strolls over to the bar and seats himself, swigging back the last few dregs of his beer as he does. “Yeah, well, last I checked I was still me, even if I’ve acquired some Grace along the way.” He slides the empty beer bottle back and forth on the counter. “But...there’ll be hell to pay if the other angelic assholes find out that their Michael and Lucifer vessels are off the table, so...yeah, not surprised you don’t know about it. Also, keep it quiet.” 

 

Pamela’s arms slowly lower as she stares at him, expression changing from suspicion to disbelief. “You expect me to believe Dean Winchester —big, bad, very _human,_ hunter Dean—is an angel?”

 

Dean shrugs. “Nephil, actually.”

 

Ash whistles. Loosening the death grip he has on his laptop, he shuffles closer to Dean and squints at him.“Wait, like, half-human, half-angel kinda deal?”

 

“Yup.” Dean peers over the bar. “Got any more beer? This could take a while.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but there's another on the way soon to wrap up this particular arc (I actually do mean SOON). I know quite a few people are still reading this, so thanks very much for your patience. Please know this fic is NOT abandoned, and if I ever do decide to abandon this, I WILL post an announcement and will not leave you hanging. 
> 
>  
> 
> For anyone curious about the long wait: as I'm sure many can relate, my cat of 16 years had a rapid downturn after Christmas last year, and eventually passed away from cancer, so that was a big hit to motivation, and my kitty-less existence has been equally as un-motivating/depressing. Also, just, you know, life, work, general adulting, and did I mention WORK ?


	38. Forgive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag: S05E16 - Dark Side of the Moon

_Forgive_

*

They find Sam exactly where Dean thought they would. Somehow—Dean’s gonna ask him how, one day—he found his way to Jessica Moore’s personal heaven. Dragging him away is tough, but when Dean points out that that dick Zachariah is after them and Sam probably shouldn’t be drawing that kind of attention to his ex-girlfriend, he immediately jumps on the martyr wagon. After several uncomfortable minutes of tearful goodbyes, Dean drags Sam by his feathers back to Ash’s Roadhouse heaven, where he dumps the tearful lug in a seat at the bar and shoves two fingers of Jack into his hands. “Drink up.”

 

Sam downs it like a fish. 

 

Pamela watches him with a small, sad smile. Sam’s gifted that way—he can pull off that ‘I’m hurt and distressed, pity me’ vibe easier than most. Dean snags another beer from the endless supply—and okay, he’ll admit that heaven is kind of nice that way—and puts it down in front of Sam, since the kid’s downed his whiskey already like it’s going outta style. 

 

Then he releases his Grace. 

 

Up in heaven, apparently, no one’s eyes burn out of their skulls...they just see what their soul’s mind can best comprehend. Since angels in their true forms are generally far too complex for most human minds to handle, most souls just see what they expect to see, like a glowing human with wings. Being a Nephil, Dean has discovered that he fits the bill for what people expect from an ‘angel’ a little too well, so both Pamela and Ash are very much capable of perceiving his wings and that annoying glow. 

 

Sam shoots upright in his seat. “Dean!”

 

Dean waves him off. “Nah, it’s okay. I told them.”

 

Sam splutters. “You did _what?_ ”

 

Dean flicks a wing in a casual shrug. “Pamela figured it out. They’re not gonna tell anyone Sam, they’re on our side.”

 

“Mmhm, you boys always get yourselves into the craziest situations, you know that?” Pamela shakes her head in bemusement. 

 

Sam immediately starts radiating guilt like ash mixed with snow. His shoulders slump, wings spilling and unfurling like they’re weighted down and sodden. He looks like a drowned bird. “Pamela! Pamela...I’m so sorry. We…”

 

Pamela saunters over. Her eyes are latched onto Sam’s great, hulking beasts of wings with interest. “Wow. Talk about opposites. It’s like night and day.”

 

Sam turns great big puppy eyes on Pamela. “Pamela…” God, why does the kid have to take all the blame? 

 

Pamela reaches him and suddenly snaps her hand forward and clips him round the ear. “There,” she says, grinning a little, “that’s for getting me killed.”

 

Okay, so, maybe they should be feeling a bit guilty, but…life goes on and all that jazz. Shit happens. Pamela died, and as far as Dean can see, she doesn’t look too torn up about it. “If it makes you feel any better, we got Ash killed too,” he offers. 

 

Ash, sitting at the bar and doing his thing with his laptop and the chattering angels, raises his hand. “I’m cool with it.”

 

Looking Sam in the eye, Dean nods at Ash. “He’s cool with it. Pamela?”

 

Pamela’s always been quick to catch on. Sam’s been riding the guilt train over this whole damn Apocalypse for far too long. She smiles at Sam. “I’m good. Really. And I’ll forgive you if you let me do one, tiny little thing.”

 

Sam eyes her warily. He turns to the side, facing her fully, and his wing nudges up against the bar. “What’s that?”

 

“Let me play with those wings.”

 

Dean chokes back a laugh. His amusement disappears completely when she calls over her shoulder, “You too, Dean!”

 

“What? No way! No touching the wings!”

 

Sam glares at him. “If I have to, so do you.” 

 

And Pamela’s pulling the ‘you got me killed so you owe me’ card. Awesome. 

 

Dean isn’t going to admit he’s a little wary of letting people touch his wings. Humans normally can’t touch them, so the only beings who’ve ever touched them are other angels...and Sam. It’s never been exactly what he’d call comfortable—it’s just too intimate. Like letting someone stroke his hair or...yeah, not going there. And then there’s the fact that they’re like giant satellite dishes for emotion.

 

Heaven has proven to work a lot differently to Earth. What that means for letting people—especially human souls—touch them...well, he’s about to find out, isn’t he? In heaven he’s already discovered that his wings don’t phase through anything—everything’s solid here. He doesn’t doubt that Pamela will have any trouble touching them. 

 

He watches Sam carefully as Pamela reaches for the first glossy, sparkling, black primary feather. She’s incredibly gentle as she runs her finger tips down its length. Even Ash has stopped monitoring the angel frequencies to watch with interest. Sam shivers and his wings twitch. Pamela hides a smile. 

 

“It’s hot,” she eventually informs them. “I feel like it should burn me, but it doesn’t. Soft, too, though. I can’t quite classify the sensation.”

 

“My guess is that since they’re made of Grace, its power translates to heat when touched. At least, for us humans,” Ash speculates. “S’real interestin’ how that works, really. What’s it feel like to you guys?”

 

Dean shrugs, shoulders and wings moving in tandem. “Feels like feathers to me. They’re not hot or anything, just...feathers. It’s more what my feathers feel from getting touched, or brushing against other people’s emotions or...well, my Grace does burn in the presence of demons. It sort of tries to...burn the demonic taint out, right, Sam?”

 

Sam’s jaw twitches as Pamela goes in for a more intimate stroke. “R-right,” he chokes out, coughing to cover just how bothered he is by the sensations. “Um, yeah, that’s a good way of describing it.” 

 

“Fire, light, lightning...all common angelic themes,” Ash agrees. “A lot of cleansing rituals involve fire.”

 

“Your turn!” Pamela announces suddenly. Sam slumps in relief at the same time that Dean takes a quick, flapping hop step back. The tip of his right wing hits one of the roadhouse’s support beams and he grimaces, pulling it back in. It’s hard to remember they don’t just pass through solid objects anymore. 

 

“H-hey, let’s _not_ -”

 

A sudden explosion of static cuts him off mid-sentence. Ash slams the laptop shut in surprise and whirls towards the old radio perched on a shelf behind the bar. The dial spins crazily, the speakers crackle and Dean knows exactly where this is going. “Wait!” he shouts, when Ash goes to grab the radio. “Don’t.”

 

“What’s going on?” Pamela demands, bracing her feet apart like she’s ready to run. 

 

“It’s Cas, he’s trying to contact us.” Dean hastens around the obstacle course of tables and chairs and swings round the bar. “He’s using a method that can’t be overheard by the others. Cas? Cas, you there?”

 

The dial turns one last time before finally settling on a station with minimal white noise. “Dean. Yes, I am here.”

 

“Okay, good. So, what you got for us?”

 

“Leaving heaven will have to be under your own power, not mine, but Dean? How good is your ability to disguise your Grace?”

 

Dean exchanges a frown with Sam. Sam scoots down the bar until he’s closer and leans forward. “Why?”

 

“There is an angel, his name is Joshua, there is a rumor that he talks to God. Dean, Sam, you have a rare opportunity to speak to him.”

 

“And you want to know if our disguise is good enough,” Sam concludes. 

 

“In heaven it will be harder to hide what you are,” Castiel concedes. 

 

Dean glances over his shoulder at Pamela. She’s watching the radio speak with a look on her face that’s hard to read. Dean knows that behind the mask of her face, she doesn’t know _what_ to feel—whether to be angry or curious or just plain apathetic. She catches his eye and sends him a little sarcastic quirk of the lips. “Yeah, if a human psychic can tell, I don’t think he’s gonna have much luck with the angels!” she shouts. 

 

“Who is that?” Cas demands immediately. Dean can already hear his voice beginning to fade out again and knows the communication is coming to an end. 

 

“Focus, Cas. Is it worth it? Potentially revealing ourselves, I mean. Do you think this Joshua would be on our side, or Michael’s? Don’t forget if we lose the element of surprise, our plan’s not gonna work.”

 

“I can’t tell you what Joshua will do, but he is known to be impartial. We need to know God’s plan, Dean.”

 

“If he even has one,” Dean muttered resentfully. 

 

“It is your….choice….”

 

“Cas!”

 

“...bodies….waiting…”

 

The radio finally splutters into silence. Dean leans back with a grimace, pulling his wings in tightly against his back. “Awesome.”

 

Sam gets right to the point. “Do you think it’s worth the risk?”

 

And that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it? Cas is convinced that if they can only get a sign from God, that it’ll lead them down the right path—that they’ll finally have the perfect solution. He and Gabriel aren’t so sure about that. Gabriel lost faith in God millennia ago, and Dean...well, Dean never had much to begin with. Sam’s stuck firmly in the middle—he thinks it might be an avenue worth pursing. Now that the opportunity is upon them, Dean can’t decide if it’s worth revealing their hand too early just in the off-chance that this Joshua might a) have information about God and b) won’t turn around and report them to the rest of the Host. It’s a huge risk. 

 

In the end, Sam twists his arm. 

 

“I’m going, Dean. You can go back and wait for me if you want.”

 

And really, what choice does Dean have then but to go along with it? He’s not leaving Sam to his own devices and it’s already a proven fact that Winchesters work better together than apart. 

 

“Sonnova-” he mutters. “Jesus, fine, Sam! But we’re gonna make sure we’ve got our Grace hidden so well that Pamela can’t tell us from Adam.”

 

“Happy to help, boys,” Pamela pipes up, watching them from her perch on a bar stool. 

 

“Then let’s get this show on the road.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not completely happy with this chapter, but I felt like the elephant in the room (i.e. Dean and Sam getting Pamela killed) needed to be addressed, and the plot needs to progress, sooo... Maybe I'll re-write this scene at some point. Otherwise, fun times with angel wings. Things work differently in heaven.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, thanks to all who are still reading (and new readers!), who reviewed, and the well wishes/sympathies. My own in return for all of you who have felt the loss of a beloved animal companion recently or in the past. Believe me, I get it. Anyway, I shall endeavour to respond to reviews eventually, but trust I am reading them and appreciate them greatly. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you notice any silly errors (grammar, typos, spelling, glaring plot holes, etc) please let me know
> 
> Feel free to come chat on [tumblr](http://supermagicmarvel.tumblr.com)


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